#which means it’ll be dumb and silly

[musingsofheaven]

SO, ASL? p1

summary: You logged on for fun. Maybe a dumb convo because you fantasized sleep. Definitely not to let some stranger talk you to get wet. But here you are. Logged in. It’s fine. You’re fine. Just casually rubbing one out over a guy you don’t know while whispering “fuck me” into your own hand. But you are just a girl!

pairings: rafe cameron x afab!reader

warnings: 3.6k words. mature themes. sexting format. masturbation (f solo, m implied). orgasm denial/control. explicit sexual language. intense dirty talk. exhibitionism-adjacent. anonymous chat. overstimulation. voice kink (implied). read responsibly.

notes: so this was supposed to be a tiny thing… like a silly idea that maybe stayed under 1k?? like just a little blurb to get out of my system. and then i started writing. and um. yeah. 😵‍💫 i wrote this while ovulating. which explains a lot. like… a lot a lot. and i know it’s kinda cringe (okay like really cringe) but listen… i literally couldn’t stop thinking about touching yourself to someone you’ve never even seen??? like??? that’s so unhinged. and so hot. and so girlcore™. 🥵🫣 anyway this is disgusting and i should be locked in a box but i hope u enjoy 🫶😻

You don’t usually do this.

Maybe you do that when you’re so fucked up, meaning too bored, too awake, too alone, or yeah. P.S. You’re not even really into anonymous chat stuff. But it’s 2:21 a.m., and you’ve been rolling around your bed, taking some melatonin, and even listening to asmr bullshit. Your bed feels shit right now, and your phone is useless because it’s not helping you to fall asleep. Your brain is spinning in that useless, itchy way when you’re overtired but still too wired to sleep.

You have also been scrolling for too long now. Friends are asleep. You don’t have someone to annoy while you’re awake. You’re not ready to read, watch, or do things. Now that you’re on the home page, type in one of those chat sites.

There’s a video chat option, but you chose the anonymous chat instead. Because... why not? Text only. No usernames. No cameras. Just with the thrill of matching with a stranger. Either you’ll match with someone good, or it’ll be mediocre, so skip it. Hit or pass, really.

You’ve just welcomed the typical page stating that you must be 18 or older, etc., rules that people won’t follow. Ultimately, a start button will be available, allowing you to click it.

Connecting you to someone…

You wait for it to load.

Then... there’s this classic: “You are now chatting with a random stranger.”

Stranger is typing...

Stranger: Hey, stupid question but

Stranger: If you have a flavor, what would it be

You blink. Yeah, it’s a fucking stupid question.

Then smiles.

You: That’s what you say to the conversation?

You: Not some typical age and gender?

Stranger: Yeah. But don’t say vanilla. I’ll block u

You: Wow, okay.

You: Hm... mine’s probably like matcha and cherry chapstick

Stranger: Okay slut

You snort. That will likely offend you greatly if you come here in a bad mood or with a bad attitude. But fine, since you’re bored, you’ll try to entertain yourself with this.

You: U?

Stranger: Probably Coke and whiskey

That makes perfect sense because Coke and whiskey are a good combination. It’s not Coke-like drugs, but Coca-Cola.

You: You mean the drink, right...?

Stranger: Right, right.

The conversation flows smoothly and unfolds quickly. It’s really funny and chaotic, honestly.

You talked about random things, mostly stupid things. We even had a fake fight about which pasta was the best. Your answer is carbonara. His is spaghetti. He admits to getting banned from Tinder for making his bio say, “just here to fuck and psychoanalysis how you after sex,” and people thought he was a poser or catfish too. Probably implying to you he looks good. It’s messy, stupid, and weirdly comfortable for two people who don’t know each other’s names.

You check the time. 3:37 a.m.

You: Damn, how are u still here?

Stranger: Insomnia. Boredom. Maybe because you make the conversation interesting

You: Wow. Smooth.

Stranger: I try

Stranger: Can I say something?

You: What something?

You: Do I wanna know?

Stranger: Depends on how lonely you are tonight

Your breath catches. Confused about what he meant. Ah, yes, you also exchanged information, but not in a too-personal manner. There’s a pause. You stare at the message. Like it knows something you don’t.

You: …say it

Stranger: I keep wondering what you taste like when you’re half-asleep and lazy about it

You freeze. It’s not some overreacting freeze; it’s more like staring dumbly at your screen.

You: Wow

Stranger: Too far?

You: A little bit

Stranger: If you wanna end the chat, it’s okay

You stare at the message. Like, really stare at it.

You could close the tab or end it intentionally. Perhaps you can thank me for the weird conversation and return to the part where you try (and fail) to sleep. You could reason out that you’ll do something. Or shut off your phone so you won’t get disconnected. You don’t even know what this guy looks like. You’ve never heard his voice. He could be a serial killer or what.

But you don’t close it.

You type instead.

You: Nah

You: Didn’t expect that ...://

Stranger: What did u expect

Stranger: U typed cherry chapstick like u weren’t tryna start shit earlier

You: Hey, I am genuine with that one

You: And maybe I was bored

Stranger: And now?

You: Still bored. just… warmer

Your heart skips a little after sending it. You don’t know why you admitted that. You know it’s true. You’re not really uncomfortable in the conversation. Honestly, you want to explore it more.

Stranger: Mmm

Stranger: Good

Stranger: Bored and warm’s a nice combo

Stranger: Makes people honest

You type and delete it. On his end, it keeps showing the stranger is typing. You don’t respond right away. You’re biting your lip. Tugging at your shirt. Your thighs press together without meaning to.

Stranger: Hey, cherry chopsticks

Stranger: Still there?

You: Yeah

Stranger: Wanna do something stupid with me?

God. You swallow. Okay, okay, that’s where you will draw the line! You will end it now. You swear. But it’s anonymous. It’s nothing. You’re never gonna meet this guy. You’re just killing time until sleep comes to you.

That’s all it is.

You: Okay

You: How stupid

Stranger: Tell me what you’re wearing

You stare at that message like it’s a trap. If you answer it, something irreversible will happen.

Because you could lie. Maybe lies about some information about what he’s asking. It’s not like he’s going to know. Say you’re wearing something sexy or perhaps lingerie. Just go thirst him more.

You could close the tab.

But you don’t.

You: Ugh

You: Shirt

Stranger: And?

You: Just a shirt and shorts, okay

Stranger: Nothing underneath?

You bite the inside of your cheek. You hate that he guessed that. Maybe it’s too obvious. Most women don’t prefer not to sleep with a bra on.

You: I didn’t plan on chatting with strangers tonight, lol

Stranger: I didn’t plan on jerking off with strangers tonight either, but here we are

You feel your stomach flip. Not in a gross way. Not in a warning way. Just… dizzy. It feels buzzing and hot, that kind.

You: You’re really doing that? haha

Stranger: My hand’s been in my sweats for like 10 mins now

Stranger: You’re hot

Stranger: Even without a face

You don’t know what to say to that. It’s unhinged. It’s... fuck, you never get to that point before when you’re on this site. When they start saying things like this, you’ll end the chat. No one’s ever said it like that. Maybe there is. But not precisely, you encountered it.

You: You’re crazy

Stranger: A little

Stranger: Wanna help me?

You feel your legs shift again, shut them close, rubbing them together a little more. Feel your skin heated. You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t be doing this.

But god, you’re so bored. And tired. And warm. And trembling already.

You: Okay

Stranger: Yeah?

You: Yeah

You: Tell me what to do

Stranger: Take the shirt off

You: What if I’m cold lol

Stranger: Bet your nipples are already hard anyway, so it doesn’t matter

Stranger: I wanna picture it

You: You’re fucked up

You: That’s... ugh

Stranger: Yeah

Stranger: So, take it off

You do. Fuck. You could just say in the chat that you did it even though you didn’t. But your fingers shake a little. You followed what he said and threw your shirt somewhere in your bed. Your screen lights your bare skin faintly, shadows moving across your chest when you shift. You know he can’t see you. That’s what makes it worse. Or better.

You: Okay, it’s off

Stranger: Fuck

Stranger: You are touching yet?

You: No

You: I was waiting for you to say it

Stranger: Good girl

Stranger: Put your fingers in your mouth first

You: ?

Stranger: Wanna imagine how wet you are before you even touch

Stranger: And bet your mouth’s drooling just thinking about it

Your thighs press together again, just trying to get pressure from the tiny movement. You don’t even realize you’re doing it until you read that again and go still.

You: I hate you

Stranger: Do it

You: Did

You: Uhm, fingers...

You: Wet

Stranger: Fuck

Stranger: Now rub

You insert your hand underneath your shorts and panties. You did what he instructed you, slowly and lazily, as if your body was being controlled by him. Just barely tracing your clit. It’s not even good yet. You’re just testing the water at this point.

You: Mmm

Stranger: Yeah?

Stranger: Fuck yourself a little

You: 2 fingers

You: Ugh

Stranger: Bet it’s tight

Stranger: Fuck, I wanna ruin you

Stranger: Throat, pussy, whatever you’ll give me

Stranger: I wanna keep you fucked out and dumb all night

Stranger: Ruin you till you forget your own name

Your breath stutters. You press your palm down and try not to moan even though there’s no one around to hear.

You: Say more

You: Pls

You’re hardly able to type. You’re already breathless, hand sliding wetly between your thighs again, screen dimmed just enough to feel this is wrong, like a secret, like you’re not totally exposed. Your pulse jumps as his typing bubble appears.

Stranger: Wanna pin you down

Stranger: Make you gag on my cock while you finger yourself

Stranger: Fuck your throat till you cry

Stranger: And then stuff your cunt so full you can’t even think

Stranger: Going to fuck you raw

Stranger: I’d spit on you and make you say thank you

Stranger: I’d keep going even when you say you can’t

You just stare at his multiple messages as if he knows it’s turning you on reading them. You are probably imagining it already with some faceless man in your head. Your stomach flips. Your legs are already shaking, two fingers deep and dripping. You whimper as you type, back arching off the bed.

You: Fuuuck

Stranger: Yeah?

Stranger: How deep are your fingers right now

Stranger: Tell me

Your eyes move from the phone to your hand as your knuckles and palms glisten. Your inner thighs are sticky, messy, and flushed.

You: Knuckles

You: Palm, maybe

You: I’m fucking wet

You: Pls

You: It’s so messy rn

Your hand’s already so soaked. Your fingers are curled tight inside you, clenching each time you thrust it smoothly and to your liking. You’re making a mess of the sheets, thighs sticky, flushed everywhere. You don’t even want to look down because it’s humiliating how wet you are. How much you need him to keep talking. Humiliating because you're being spoken to in such a manner by a stranger.

Stranger: God, I’d bury my face in it

Stranger: Tongue all over your clit

Stranger: Going to suck your clit and kiss your slit

Stranger: Fuck you with it until you scream

Stranger: Eat you til you sob for it

Stranger: Like it’s the last meal I’ll ever have

You whine, thighs closing together. Trapping your hand between it. You’re already beating and twitching around your fingers just from reading it. You imagine it.  His mouth is hot and open against you, messy and greedy, his grip bruising your hips as he eats you while you’re grinding into his mouth.

Your legs are trembling. Your clit is throbbing, aching, begging for touch.

And your fingers are still knuckle deep inside your cunt and still thrusting lazily, just enough to get pleasure. So yeah, you’re completely fucked because words shouldn’t do this to you, but you’re so horny, and he needs to scratch the itch.

You: You’re disgusting

Stranger: You like it tho

Stranger: Your pussy’s dripping all over your fingers, rn.

You: No

You: Shut up

You: You’re not even real

You don’t know why you said that. That he’s not real. Maybe because you know after this, you’ll end the chat. Forget him. That this is just one wild bored moment, and you just got horny. But he is. He’s real in your phone and the cause of the slick between your legs. He’s real in how you’re grinding into your hand and trying to get off.

Stranger: I’m hard as fuck rn

Stranger: Stroking slow

Stranger: Rubbing the pre to the tip

Stranger: Thinking about your cunt choking my fingers

Your breath hitch. You’re clenching down around nothing now because you pull out your fingers before sliding wetly back in with your wrist trembling, whole body hot, and legs shaking a little.

You want him here in your bed so bad it fucking makes you almost type if he wants to meet up right now. You don’t even know if you’re in the same state or even the same country. You want his fingers inside you instead. You know it’s longer, thicker, and rougher. You want his knuckles brushing against your clit as he thrusts it in, fuck, how will he sound when he whispers in your ear? His hand is holding your wrist down when you twitch, from how much it’s all too much.

You: I can’t stop

You: It’s so warm

Stranger: Rub your clit

Stranger: Just one finger

Stranger: Go slow

One finger on your clit. Just like he said.

You do. You listen and switch from fingers inside to rubbing your clit. That stupid little part of you that never listens to men like this fuck, you never liked to be told what to do, never talks to men like this. That part of you? She’s gone. She drowned in slick, in the low beating of your own pulse pounding between your thighs.

You whimper, actually whimper out loud while you follow him, legs twitching. Your soaked fingers are still on your clit, and when you circle it over and over, your eyes roll. Your back arches just a little. You’re so far gone, and it’s actually embarrassing and disgusting. Thighs jerking every time his messages pop up. He’s just words on a screen, but fuck... making you get off. It’s so dumb how good it feels. How this stranger, this faceless, nameless boy, has you folding like this.

You’re soaked. You’re dripping. And you’re still not close to done.

Stranger: Still holding it?

Stranger: Be good for me

Shit. Be good for him? Why he’s talking like that. Why he’s praising you. You don’t even answer. You are nod like he can see you. You know he didn’t. You know he’s not here. You bite the edge of your blanket and rub tighter circles, trying to keep your hips from lifting and grinding at it.

You type with one hand, fingers almost slipping, and the phone nearly falling to your face. You can’t even type properly

You: Mmm i cant take jt

You: Pleaseplease csn i cum

You: So vlose

Stranger: Fuck

Stranger: Okay

Stranger: Cum for me, baby

Fuck. Then after his permission you come. So hard you choke on it. A sob in your throat, your body folding, shuddering. Your legs are kicking out under the blanket. Hitting it left to right. You can’t even manage to stay still. Your toes are curling, too.

You: Fucfkkk

Your hand’s still between your legs. You’re soaked, your thighs, your fingers still twitching like they still want something. Your chest is panting a little while your eyes are closed and open; you don’t know what to do.

Stranger: That was so hot

Stranger: You still there?

You didn’t reply for a moment and let yourself catch your breath. Thank fuck for your good connection because you’re not disconnecting from this chat while you’re not replying. Your hand’s still gone, but you haven’t moved it yet. There’s heat trapped everywhere, in your neck, in your hips, curling lazy and slick between your thighs like you’re still trembling from it.

Your legs are like a bent spring. Your chest’s rising too fast. The screen’s glowing beside you, still waiting.

You: Did u cum too ...?

You typed out. I didn’t know why you were even concerned about it. For fuck all you know, he’s not really doing anything. But you can’t help but get curious. You imagine him leaning back, spent, his lips parted just a tiny bit, probably still holding his phone in one hand while the other one is sticky, especially in his pal.

Stranger: Yeah

Stranger: It got on my screen, lol

You cover your cheek with your blanket, feeling embarrassed by his message. Maybe you’re blushing, not that you notice it. You’ll just disguise it as your body’s reaction to your orgasm.

You: Gross

But you’re smiling, biting the corner of your bottom lip. It’s that dumb smile, even though your fingers are damp and you haven’t moved an inch. There’s something about the fact that he came, too. Perhaps you feel reassured knowing that he enjoyed it too. Somehow. Like, wow, you really did that. From just chatting with him, or probably he’s already too horny, so it’s inevitable. Not that you care much about it.

You: You’re disgusting

Stranger: You liked it

Stranger: Admit it

You: Maybe

You: Shut up

Your thighs flutter again. You roll onto your side, toes tracing the sheets as if they’ll do anything to cool you down.

Stranger: Can’t stop picturing you

Stranger: Bet you looked so fucking pretty cumming

You take a deep breath. You let your fingers away from your cunt and from the slick of your inner thighs. There’s a burning in your ears like it depends on how he messages you, and it’s not even yours anymore. It’s him, somehow. It depends on every line he types and how he describes it.

Fuck. That was disgusting. Do you literally think about that? Boredom will lead you to do things you will not return for. Like this one. Particularly this one, yeah.

You: You’re actually gross

Stranger: And you still didn’t skip

Stranger: An hour ago, you said you were bored

Stranger: Still bored?

You: No lol

You: Kinda feel like I need sleep now

You: Maybe I need to touch myself to fall asleep

He doesn’t reply. Well, at least not quickly, as he always does throughout your conversation. You almost think he left, that it’s over, that he got what he wanted, he cummed, got dirty, and satisfied his horniness like most guys on here do. However, the bubble then pops back up.

Stranger: Hey

Stranger: This is gonna sound dumb, but

Stranger: Wanna exchange socials?

Oh. You blink. Once. Twice. Then again. You just stared at it for a while. Your body’s still high from earlier, flushed and naked under the sheets, and now your heart and stomach are doing that stupid flip thing. Nervous. Overthinking. Fuck.

Stranger: You don’t have to btw

Stranger: But I liked talking to you

Stranger: Not just the… yk

You are still not replying; you are just still biting your lip. Shit. You should end the chat now. You swear that this was it. That’s it. Yeah. Never exchange social media with them, as you always do. The part swears it’s just for fun, just for the night, that gets off and signs out. She’s quiet now. Real quiet. Like she’s mute.

You: Maybe

You: Depends on what ur profile looks like

You: If we’re ugly, I’m blocking u on everything

Stranger: Bold of you to assume I’m not hot

Stranger: I’ll send mine first

You: …fine

You: But if you catfish me, I’m calling the FBI

Stranger: Deal

Stranger: Here’s my IG

Stranger: @rafe.cameron

He drops the username without hesitation. He’s so sure of himself that women will enjoy what they see. They will het flutter if they talk to a stranger who looks like that.

You stare at it. Just wondering if it’s really his or if he just randomly drops someone’s handle. Your fingers hover. You haven’t even typed yours yet.

You: Oh

You: You are so unserious

Stranger: Dead serious, actually

Stranger: Go look

Stranger: I’ll wait

Curiosity wins.

It always does.

Curiosity kills the cat, they say.

You can quickly switch tabs and open Instagram from there. Your brain is still dumb and high off him, of how he talked to you like you were his, like your noises were made for him.

Paste his handle in the search, wait for it to load, and then view his profile. And then...

“Oh fuck,” you whisper to yourself like anyone’s here to hear it. Like anyone could possibly believe this shit. Like you are talking to him.

Jesus. Is this really him?

Like, him him. Tan lines and dark hair. A jaw looks too good, which makes you want to lick it. One too many shirtless mirror pics in his highlights and a follower count that makes your stomach drop.

Rafe Cameron.

You: What the fuck

You: What the actual fuck

You: Ur famous

You: You have many followers

That is him. Right? But you still doubt it, kinda. The guy who made you cum with just his chat. Who called you baby. Who told you how pretty you sounded when you begged.

You scroll. Just once. To check the preview of what his feed will look like. Just enough to feel your thighs press tighter together before you go back to the site to check his profile.

Stranger: Follow me

Stranger: I’ll follow back

Stranger: Don’t act shy now

Stranger: You literally came just talking to me

Stranger: And now you’re embarrassed?

Your cheeks heated. You move under the covers as if it will do shit, like you’re not already wet again, just reading his tone.

You: I didn’t think you were real

You: Like a normal person

You: Not some…

You stop. Don’t even finish the thought. He’s enough to ruin you. Smug enough to know it.

You: I hate you

Stranger: No, you don’t

Stranger: I’ll be in your head for days

He already is. And this shit makes you want to actually talk to him. Maybe you’re more attracted to him now.

You pause. Hesitant for a moment. Then you follow him.

Three seconds later:

@rafe.cameron followed you back

Oh. That’s really him. Shit. That’s really him. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  Your stomach flips. Your skin crawls on your body.

Stranger: There we go

Stranger: Night baby

You: Fuck off

You managed to say that before “Stranger has disconnected” shows the screen. You left the site and went to Instagram to stalk him again. You’re smiling. Well, not really. You’re more likely grinning. You’re still heated and wet. Your panties are soaked around one ankle like some whorey medal you are showing. You’re too busy staring at his name.

Rafe fucking Cameron.

It sounded too sexy. His name will probably sound more sexy when you moan it. Your pussy spasms like it remembers every second since his words slid into your head, every word typed out by some cocky stranger that was too full of himself.

You open his profile again.

It’s worse the second time. This time. The tagged photos, the stories, every new picture sends a fresh jolt to your cunt like you’re putting it on an electric socket. Thirst traps on yachts. It’s a beach pic with his hand in some girl’s waist, but it’s just a back photo. Jesus fuck, that mirror selfie. He’s in the bathroom. The towel is so low that it’s showing his v line. Fuck... The body is well-defined but not excessively muscular. Just enough to catch women’s attention.The caption?

@rafe.cameron: Just showered. Missed a spot?

You choke on your spit in your mouth. Literally choke. Your pussy flutters like it knows he meant you.

Your finger twitches, and you tap through the highlights like it’s some boudoir folder, and every image makes your pussy clench harder. His jawline. That golden skin. His hands hang low near his hips like he knows exactly where you want them.

God. You hate him. Hate that he made you come to chat. Hate that he’s so attractive. Hate him. That is concerning to feminists because you want him to fuck you like some whore. Hate that your cunt’s still greedy, still wanting for more, that your hand is already creeping back to your tits as it belongs there.

But it doesn’t stay long there; your hand moves lower in a slow, familiar feeling taking over. Your fingers dip between your legs, tracing the mess he left behind. You’re so wet it’s embarrassing. It’s slippery, soaked, and obscene.

Your thumb circles your clit once. You shiver, and you press harder before rubbing faster. Then, because you’re disgusting and already past the part where you will pretend you’re not sexually attracted,, and horny again, your fingers slide inside like they’ve been waiting forever.

You moan. Soft, shaky, breathless right into the empty room. The stretch around your pussy is perfect, especially since you haven’t touched yourself recently. It feels like you’ve been aching for it. You imagine it’s him. His fingers, long and rough and thick, whispering... Already dripping? Jesus, baby. What’d I do to you?

You grind up into your own hand like a bitch in heat. From the first grind, it’s already slick and more filthier. Your fingers work in the push and pull, in and out, while your thumb rubs your clit just enough, maybe just some flicks. Your phone still glows in your other hand, his face watching you fall apart from that one Instagram post. Smiling, all sun-bleached confidence and a hot body.

It’s like you’re stalking him because of something. Maybe the idea of his picture staring at you excites you. Want him to see this. It is to know how fast you get worked up. That he made you finger yourself with just one sentence and a username.

Your legs start shaking. You’re so fucking close.

That made you zoom in on his pictures. Zooming is the area where you get turned on the most. And shit, every new image makes your pussy clench harder. Made you pump your fingers harder, faster. Made you panting quietly and try to stay quiet.

And when you come? It’s something. Sloppy. A wet rush that makes your fingers slip, and your hips shake and thrust forward repeatedly. You moan into the pillow, biting it, praying no one hears. It’s loud. Ugly. The kind of orgasm that leaves you twitching, gasping, some post-nut clarity.

When you finally stop, you’re limp. A little. Your thighs managed to get tired this time. And your wrist, too. You lie there, still flushed and soaked, panties bunched around your ankle like a trophy. Tits out. Hair matted to your forehead.  Your body slacks with leftover heat. Your fingers are still slick and sticky. Your phone is still open to his account, a disgusting mess of slick thighs and a shameful self.

You don’t chat with him like he expected you to. Well, it’s not that you are expecting him to think that. No. Well, maybe a little.

If you close the app like that, it will help you erase what happened. Like whoever god there didn’t already see you finger yourself hard over some pictures of a stranger you met from that shitty site.

Jesus fucking Christ.

What was that?

Seriously. What the actual fuck was that.

And you stare at the ceiling, half sleepy, flushed, pussy still quivering like it’s got a mind of its own. Chest rising like you just got hit by a truck full of shame.

Your clit’s still throbbing.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper, like maybe God’s taking calls tonight.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[hotluncheddie]

wc: 1.6k | rated: G | tags: Fluff, getting together, recovering Eddie Munson, they're in love

‧₊˚ ⋅

It’s Wayne’s idea first.

Eddie has to take talking again slowly, his throat ruined by the bats; some of it reconstructed and most of it heavily scarred. It’ll all return: talking and singing and silly voices. But only with time and patience.

But patience is not something that comes easy to Eddie Munson.

He seemed to take the ‘no talking’, ‘take it slow’, and ‘only do so much’ rules like it pained his soul. And they all realised quickly that asking Eddie questions to have him practise doesn't work because Eddie can never get his fully formed response out before the pain became too great. It became quickly apparent that no answer was better than something half-finished.

To help, he’d write long, sprawling journal entries, song lyrics and letters. Scratchy handwriting etched all over notebooks and loose pieces of paper, receipts, napkins and pill packets. Some he’d share, and others were squirrelled away, too honest in their pain and intensity.

But he still needed to practise; he needed to learn to speak again.

The doctors said keeping a catalogue of how he’s progressing would help with treatment; the more information available, the better they can help. To have something consistent to gauge Eddie’s ability to talk and to keep a note of the pain scale day to day or week to week. To see how far he has to go, but eventually, hopefully, to see how far he’s already come.

Dustin tries first with lines from Lord of the Rings. But the prose holds too many memories and, like the questions, too many opinions and connected tales he’s unable to voice.

Steve tries mundane stuff, like the back of the little hospital shampoo. But that quickly bores them both to tears and the idea is put away to never be spoken of again.

Robin tries asking him trivia – where do penguins live? Who was the first president? And that works for a few days, until they seem to step on some long-buried trigger, the demand too much like schoolwork, the unknown answers stinging too closely to past teachers' bitter berating of his academic failures. So trivia gets thrown out with the shampoo.

Then, one afternoon, Wayne walks in with the funnies pulled out and tucked under his arm. Spreading it out under his mug of freshly brewed coffee from home. The little grumpy Garfield looking up at Eddie from his hospital tray table.

‘I hate Mondays.’ Eddie rasps, a complex mix of frustration, relief and endearment on his face. Pain 7, words clear but slow, M most difficult because of the damage to his lower lip.

And so it goes: Garfield, pain, clearness and any details that might be important. Every day.

Steve can’t seem to let it go and becomes fixated. Garfield clearly being the answer to their problem. But more so, maybe, is the little smile the comic is able to get out of Eddie. Even on days where his pain is high and it really, really hurts him to talk, words coming near garbled, Garfield works. He talks even when he doesn’t want to, which makes him smile, small and quiet and pleased again. It’s progress.

Steve sees this, and Steve really can’t let it go. He’s a numbers guy, a bit of a stats lover – when he lets himself be honest and ignore the little voice in his head that says it’s embarrassing and he’s too dumb for all that. So he makes the chart anyway. Keeps note of when a new comic comes out and which ones Eddie’s already read. Finds old newspapers and clips the comic out of them, pilfering them from anyone who will let him – he's not above knocking on doors and asking. Not if it means Eddie might smile again, just like the very first time and so many times after.

He has a little chart for that too. A secret chart, just for him. It catalogues which lines made Eddie smile most, which made him outright laugh. Which he read when it was raining and he ached more. Which were the hardest to get out, that Steve wants him to try again one day, if just to hear him say it without the strain. Say it one day, hopefully pain-free.

Steve hopes Eddie can one day say them all with a smile and an ease, because seeing just a glimpse of it made something in Steve’s heart bright.

//

‘I’m sick of not being able to eat proper food.’ Eddie rasps, pouting. Steve is fiddling with Eddie's knuckles, drawing lines across his skin, over the dark hairs that sprout on his fingers. Steve tugs one, Eddie smiles. Cheeks dusting pink.

‘Two more weeks, then you’re released. As soon as possible after that, you come over and I make you lasagne; how about that?’ Steve says.

‘Like Garfield?’ Eddie asks, voice small, smile teasing. Steve watches him swallow, watching the scar on his neck move as he does. Steve’s fingers tingle; he wants to reach out and cup where he had to before, when they were in the upside down. Steve searching for that little bit of life, fingers slick with pooling blood. Once he’d found it, he’d ripped off his shirt and pressed it against Eddie’s neck. Steve wants to press against it now, just to feel the skin again, as it is now, raised and lumpy. But safe. Warm and dry with life.

‘Like Garfield.’ Steve smiles, his finger shifting between Eddie’s own, joints brushing, linking and locking. Almost holding hands.

//

Steve lays the table and lights a candle, smoothing his hands over his jeans and checking his hair in the reflection on the microwave again. He admitted to himself after the sixth time that it’s because he wants to look nice – make a good impression.

The doorbell goes at exactly 6pm. Steve doesn’t run, but he walks more quickly to the door than he thinks he ever has, pausing a moment to breathe and tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.

He opens the door and has to resist kissing Eddie right then and there. He tears his eyes away and waves at Wayne instead, who’s backing out of the drive in his truck.

Eddie’s using his new cane, shiny black with a silver handle. He’s wearing black Livi’s and a grey check flannel. His hair is curly and shiny as it falls over his ears but above his shoulders, trimmed shorter than Steve’s ever seen it. Steve doesn’t resist the urge to reach out and wrap his fingers around a strand, tugging lightly. (Steve knows it looks different because he read an article about curl care in the hospital waiting room. Which led to buying Eddie the nice shampoo and conditioner it recommended, partially as a welcome home gift, partially as another reason to be in the room with Eddie, with something new for them to talk about. And partially because Steve watched El try to brush Eddie’s hair for him. Steve having to look away whenever she caught a tangle, Eddie wincing, the halo of frizz around his head growing.) Steve’s fingers comb through easily, locks slipping between his knuckles.

Eddie looks at him with his big eyes and his lips slightly parted, eyelashes fluttering, and Steve has to resist kissing him all over again.

Wayne honks as he pulls off down the street. Eddie starts. Steve ushers him inside, through to the candlelit dining room table and napkins Joyce taught him to fold into swans.

‘Garfield’s favourite.’ He declares, laying the pan down between them, sauce oozing through bubbling cheese.

And Eddie’s eyes are big and brown and beautiful in the candlelight. He smiles up a him so big, Steve thinks his heart will jump right out of his chest.

He gets a little excited, serving Eddie almost a whole quarter of the dish. Handing it to him before realising, ‘Sorry, sorry, that’s way too much. Oh my god, you do not have to eat all of that.’

But Eddie smiles at him, licking some stray sauce off of his thumb. ‘S’fine, Stevie.’ And he digs in.

Steve watches Eddie, tearing a piece of garlic bread with his teeth. The movement of his jaw as he chews and swallows. The curl of his fingers around his fork.

He is here. He is beautiful.

Steve feels tears well behind his eyes. His knife clattering as it drops from his fingers. ‘Sorry, m’sorry.’ He sniffs, looking up at the ceiling and placing his fork down against the plate more quietly.

‘C’mere, Stevie.’ Eddie says gently.

Steve steps around the table, hunched and fevered, and he falls at Eddie’s feet. Knees hitting hardwood as his forehead collided with Eddie’s chest. Steve turns his head, his hair rustling against his ears, Eddie’s heartbeat coming next, solid and steady and perfect.

Steve lets his fingers crawl up Eddie’s arm, up to the scar at his throat. Holding it, palm against suture, fingers against jaw and tissue and skin.

‘You’re here.’ Steve says. Voice wet and desperate.

‘I’m here.’ Eddie whispers kindly. ‘I’m here, baby.’

And choked sob leaves Steve, wounded and animalistic, and Eddie almost died. Almost died in his arms, his hands covered in Eddie’s blood. Trying to keep his insides inside.

But he’s here, and he’s beautiful, and Steve wants Eddie to have everything he ever dreamed of, anything he didn't get time to dream of yet. Because he’s here, and he deserves it.

Eddie’s palm rests over his own, connected over his neck. The other cradling Steve’s cheek, swiping a tear away from below his lashes. Gently he pulls Steve closer, pulling him up and in.

Steve can’t resist it anymore; he can’t resist when Eddie’s so close.

He leans forward the same time Eddie does. Steve keeps his eyes open just to watch Eddie’s close; he looks blissed out and perfect. Steve lets their lips collide, dry and soft and sweet, his own eyes fluttering close. Then Eddie tilts, leaning into the hands on his neck, their noses brushing, and then there’s tongue and teeth, and Steve whines weakly, shuffling closer, chest to chest, between Eddie’s spread thighs. Exactly where he was meant to be. Meant to be here. Eddie’s here and they can be together, at last.

‧₊˚ ⋅

Taglist: @scoops-aboy86 @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @pearynice @marvel-ous-m @sweetiepeabob

@cheesedoctor @chickensinrainboots @chameleonhair @wheneverfeasible @hbyrde36

@bookworm0690

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝟱 𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗦𝗘𝗦, 𝗖𝗟𝟭𝟲 charles leclerc x reader ( fluff ) headcannon summary . . . using his five senses, these are his favourite things about you.

( fic master list | general master list ) ( requests )

👀 Sight — the way you look at him like he’s just Charles

You see him. Not the driver. Not the Ferrari golden boy. Just… Charles.

He’s addicted to the way your eyes soften when he’s being silly, not suave.

You look at him like he hung the stars even when his hair’s a mess and he’s pouting at traffic.

He catches you watching him sometimes—eyes glassy, lips parted like you’re trying to memorize him.

He acts cool but melts inside. Because he’s never felt so seen.

You make him feel real. Tangible. Like he doesn’t have to earn love to be worthy of it.

Charles is halfway through ranting about Monaco drivers ("They can't merge, amour, it's a problem"), hair wild from the helmet, hands flailing midair. You’re watching him with a smile tucked behind your hand, eyes warm. He notices, falters mid-rant. “What?” You shake your head. “Nothing. Just… I like seeing you like this.” He squints. “Like what?” You grin, tilting your head. “Like mine.” His ears go red. His heart? Gone.

✋ Touch — skin-to-skin sanctuary

Charles is a very physical lover. He thrives off of proximity, always reaching for your hand, your knee, your waist.

He sleeps best when your limbs are tangled.

He gets quiet after bad races, and your hand on his chest is the only thing that pulls him back down to earth.

Your touch is sacred to him. A form of prayer. A reminder that he’s still human underneath the pressure.

He memorizes the shape of your fingers like they’re a map home.

He’s lying on the hotel bed, freshly showered and silent. You don’t say anything—just crawl into the sheets and curl into his side, hand resting over his heart. His arms fold around you automatically, like breathing. “Merci,” he whispers into your hair, voice cracking just a little. You press your lips to his collarbone in reply. The silence stretches, soft and safe.

👃 Smell — your scent on his pillow

You smell like citrus and something soft, like sugar-dusted linen.

He notices it strongest in the mornings—when you’re wearing his hoodie and brushing your teeth with his toothpaste.

After you leave his place, the scent lingers. On the pillow. On the blanket. In his hoodie.

He buries his face in anything that smells like you when he misses you (which is often).

Sometimes, he’ll spray your perfume on his wrist. Just because.

He’s alone in his apartment, the city glittering outside the window, but his eyes are on the hoodie you left on the couch. He picks it up, presses it to his nose. It still smells like you—warm, sweet, and safe. He wears it the entire evening, answering FaceTime in it like it's no big deal. “You left something here,” he says, tugging the collar. “Or maybe I’m keeping it."

👂 Hearing — your laughter after midnight

Charles is obsessed with your laugh. Full stop.

He’ll make dumb jokes just to hear it—even if it’s 2am and you’re supposed to be sleeping.

Your laughter is his favorite sound during media days. It cuts through the noise, makes everything feel lighter.

He has a recording of you laughing saved to a voice memo and listens to it when he can’t sleep. (Yes, seriously.)

Even your annoyed huffs sound sweet to him. He's down bad.

He’s jet-lagged and restless, scrolling through his phone in the dark. You roll over, mumbling something incoherent, and he replies with a quiet joke about you snoring (you don’t, but he likes teasing). Your sleepy giggle fills the silence, and his heart thuds stupidly hard. “Tu es ridicule,” you murmur. “But you’re laughing,” he whispers. “Which means I win.”

👅 Taste — the bittersweetness of your kiss

You taste like peppermint and peach tea. Like chapstick and cherry lip gloss.

Your kisses are his favorite part of every day. Before race, after race, middle of the night.

When he's sad, he kisses you like it’ll fix him. When he's happy, he kisses you like he can’t believe he gets to.

He says you taste like nostalgia. Like something he’s waited a long time for.

Kissing you is never just physical—it’s a promise. A secret. A truth only you two know.

The night before the race, you kiss him slow. Like time isn’t real and neither is the pressure. He exhales against your lips, tasting mint and something that reminds him of safety. “Tu m’as manqué,” he breathes, even though you’re right there. You kiss him again, softer this time. “You’ll miss me more tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep.” He groans, dramatic. “Then kiss me until I do.”

[puprdou]

hi sorry I thought I put the letters 😞😞, but How about alphabet for either chifuyu or Rindou for letters W, I and D!

ㅤㅤnsfw alphabetㅤㅤ──ㅤㅤrindou haitani

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ W──I

W = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

he has a dick piercing. it makes him wildly more sensitive than without, especially when your sucking him off ’nd your tongue rolls over the cold metalic metal—fuck he’ll cum instantly faster when you do that! it also makes it so much better when he’s fucking you, cause it’ll feel incredible as the piercing is repeatedly hitting your g-spot with each thrust of his! oh, and not to mention, kitty licking his tip where the piercing is will make him tremble ’nd twitch, so if you want to reduce him to a needy sub in a matter of seconds to minutes, make sure to guide with that! (≧∇≦)

I = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

he can be both romantic and silly depending on the mood. if the mood isn’t too serious, then he’s definitely gonna end up acting more silly and goofy than usual— he’ll make dumb jokes ’nd try making you laugh when he’s not attached to your tits the entire time. which, is rare. other times, when the mood in the room is more serious or if you did something dumb that deserves punishing—although he’s not as mean as his brother in the act, he can definitely be mean when he tries. although, he never deliberately tries to make you cry, cause he’ll feel bad, so if you cry when he’s too mean, he’ll immediately be more gentle and intimate.

© 2025 𝐏𝐔𝐏𝐑𝐃𝐎𝐔, all rights reserved. please do not copy, modify, steal or translate my works onto other social media platforms.

────hiii! i’ve already done D for rindou in my last rindou alphabet post,, so i only did the other two letters you asked for^^

[ironskyfinder]

Pink Mindset IV

Just when you think you’ve done it, you find another way to put more pink into your life.

It starts in the morning, when you wake up. Before you check socials, before you check the news or the weather - edge, like a good girl should. 

Because, really - you don’t need to check the weather, you’re going to dress to put yourself on display, regardless of the cold. As for the news - don’t be silly, a girl like you wouldn’t really understand it anyway. Checking your socials is important - but it feels so much better to watch your besties’ stories and reels while you rub, doesn’t it? 

Now that you’ve had your edge, you’re ready to get up and get ready for the day. Which means it’s time to shower - and, of course, time to tease yourself more! - but don’t get too distracted or you’ll end up grinding into your palm, all day…again.

All that’s easy, though. Now the tricky part - after you finish getting ready (and edge a little), and finish getting dressed (and rub a little), and finish getting makeup on (and grind a little), you still need to keep your brain in a pink haze while you go about your day.

But fortunately, that’s easy!

We talked before about trying to use small words, and using dumber words, all so that no one mistakes you for a girl who has any brains at all. We’ve talked about using your girlwords, and other ways to advertise that you do best when things are mansplained and dumbed-down for you. Don’t be afraid to act your IQ, whether that’s a 32B or a 38GG, and remember to giggle whenever you don’t understand something.

But all of that requires that you focus - and that’s not what edged-out bimbos do best. So let’s talk about what you can do to fill your brain with pink, without having to think about it!

Find a few simple and innocent and girly things - like applying lipgloss, mindlessly checking your phone, giggling at nothing  - and make it a pink routine. Make it a part of every routine you have that makes you pink; every time you edge, if you need a break, play through your pink routine; when you have a blonde moment and your brain feels empty, play through your pink routine. Whenever you spend an extra long time on your makeup, whenever you get a new pair of heels, play through your pink routine If you stay consistent about doing that over and over, your pink routine will help keep you in the right mindset, whenever you do it!

Of course, we’ve already touched on the obvious and oft-repeated ‘turn off auto-correct’ - and that’s a great way to really make it clear and show off exactly how brainless you are, and every time you go to type out a text you’ll be reminded that you’re just a dummy! If that’s not enough, another way to keep your brain pink is to make your lock screen a selfie - one you take right after a hard edge - so that every time you look at your phone, you remember how great it felt! And if mindlessly checking your phone is a part of your pink routine, that only adds to how much better it’ll make you feel!

For even more of a pink routine, every time you play through it more than ten times a day, give yourself a little treat!

[silksongeveryday]

Drawing Hornet everyday until Silksong comes out - Day 365!

1 year! One whole year of daily doodles!!

Honestly?? Idk how to feel, so much has happened since I first started this blog.

I guess I’ll just write what I’m thinking right now??

(Everything under the cut, this thing is longer than I expected)

A lot of this text probably isn’t going to make sense. I’m writing this at 1 am. If there’s any mistakes or errors that’s why. I’ll fix them in the morning maybe.

So like. This whole thing kinda started as a joke, I wasn’t intending to actually draw for a year straight lmao. Like I even used a completely different art style from my regular one that was simple, quick and intentionally dumb. Not that I’m upset by it, I’m actually quite proud of myself that I managed to stick to something for an entire year. That’s pretty unusual for me believe it or not. My original intention was to stop at maybe 20 days because I really wasn’t expecting for this blog to get as much love as it did.

So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you so so much to everyone who has followed and supported this silly little idea I had, you guys are the biggest reason my experience has been so positive and worth it. (Sure it’s not original but I hope it’s at least been interesting!)

I’ve said this a few times now but I’ve mentioned wanting to take a break. I’ll admit that even though it’s been fun it’s still pretty tiring to keep up with this blog sometimes since some recent life events have made it so hard. After some thought, I’ve decided that I’ll likely take a break sometime in the coming months. Maybe toward day 400 or so. As of right now, things are at a lull so I’ve been okay enough mentally and physically to keep up this daily streak I think. Though this could change in an instant for whatever reason.

Overall I think my burnout has kind of gone away I think?? Or at least I’ve been reinvigorated recently after replaying a few runs of hk randomizer and steel soul. No promises it’ll stay away but I silly expect it to come in waves.

Ok but call me crazy or delusional or whatever, but my hopes are up that Silksong will release this year. (which means slowing down/not doing daily doodles yay) I genuinely believe big news is coming since I’ve been getting a lot of dreams lately about something happening with Silksong in March. Idk, I could be wrong but after doing this for a year I’m literally clinging onto anything right now lol

I’d obviously still make the occasional doodle or two when HKSS releases but not daily. This stuff is tough to keep up sometimes, I would never do daily posts like this again once it’s over

Oh yeah also I have an actual big drawing I’m still working on, expect that in sometime in the next few weeks I think!

Anyway, I can’t think of anything else to say right now so I guess that’s it for now!

Thanks so much and here’s to more doodles!

[lightlycareless]

hiii i rly love how you portray naoya and i really like how you got naoya's character on point like...... HOW

but like im imagining this headcanon wherein y/n and naoya are lovers and naoya brought up the topic of having an "open relationship" and naoya ends up getting no bitches/loses them in the process and y/n ends up getting approached by men who naoya respects a lot or someone he really looks up to and naoya becomes jealous and very insecure even though he was the one who wanted to open the relationship (reminds me of what you wrote about naoya's jealousy towards nanami)

Hello anon!

Awww, thank you so much ❤️❤️ I spent a lot of time thinking how to make Naoya as realistically possible, how to redeem him and such, which was difficult, but satisfying at the same time.

Yet, something a-hole behaviors of him would remain, lol it has to, or it wouldn't be him, you know???

And the open relationship thing is soooo in character for him. Ugh that man, seriously... As much as I want to deny it, I feel like he would bring it up (but in a universe he isn't like completely devoted to you, like he has yet to realize just how much you mean to him—all paths point to the same destination, it's just... how he gets there that matters lol)

Anyways, here are the warnings of this oneshot 😏: y/n has a harem essentially. gojo, suguru, nanami, and an extra one I've been dying to write. :)))) mentions of infidelity, naoya is a bastard. and a sprinkle of smut. fluff, and angst.

Without any further a do, happy reading!!

When the idea of an open relationship is suggested… the first of many fractures unwittingly struck your relationship.

First by shattering the image you had of him.

Sure, your feelings for Naoya remained, which is what made this ordeal far more painful…

But that didn’t mean you couldn’t harbor other emotions, such as anger.

“—just before we finally settle.” Is the lousy excuse he gives you when confronted, another stab to your heart. “Get it out of the system, you know?”

No. You don’t know, because for the past few years, Naoya is the only man you’ve had eyes for, to the point of imagining a future with him—and solely him.

It hurts to even consider he hasn’t been doing the same, probably already interested in some other woman, the reason behind his suggestion in the first place.

“I don’t want to…” you murmur, doing your best to not leave the table, or at least not shed a tear.

“It’ll only be a short time.” Naoya insists. “This way, we can know if we’re truly meant for each other. See if we don’t feel the same with others, hm?”

It’s stupid.

It really is—

Naoya’s suggestion… and your devotion to make him happy.

Because even after all the dumb things he said to justify the unjustifiable, you still wanted to please him.

“I guess we could go through restrictions or something, not that I have an—”

“No sex.” The rapid way in which you reply is something Naoya can’t help but find adorable, interpreting your eagerness as jealousy, overprotectiveness… before brushing it off as silly.

“Y/N—my love, you’re not seriously thinking we can reach a conclusion without that now, can we?”

Truth to be told, you didn’t want to find out. Not through this way at least, by laying in the arms of another…

Thus, could he really blame you for trying to fight it?

“Besides, don’t you want to try it out too?” Naoya smirks. “I’m fine with it, really. It’s a two-way street, after all. What’s good in me having all the fun?”

What hurts more?

That fact that Naoya wanted to pursue other women with your permission?

Or that he was pushing you onto other men, appearing careless to whatever you did or didn’t do with them?

It’s not that Naoya doesn’t care—far from that, really. He doesn’t like when men do as little as glance in your direction.

But he doesn’t worry because he knows there’s nothing to worry about.

Trusting that his hopelessly-in-love girlfriend would never betray him like that. Aware that your attention and devotion has been on him the moment you took him into your heart—and that no matter what, you’ll always come back to him.

It’s why he suggested the idea in the first place, because he’s long acknowledged that even past your limits, you still tolerate him.

Thus, unsurprised that you agreed to this change—Naoya leaving the apartment soon after that.

Looks like you were right in assuming he already had someone in mind to debut this new arrangement; willing to bet anything to prove he’s already on his way to her.

…Well, you hope that Naoya at least respects the only condition both agreed on: to not bring any partners to the apartment.

Not that you’d be there to see much of it anyways, opting to stay in your friend’s—Shoko— apartment for the time being.

“Can’t say I didn’t think him capable of doing something like that—but I guess I never thought he’d actually do it, not after dating you as long as he did.” She’d say, before taking a deep huff of her cigarette and exhaling.

You always found it endearing how she’d release the smoke to the side, as if it didn’t permeate the air around you… but at least Shoko cares enough to try. Not sure if you think the same of Naoya anymore…

“So much for having faith on him…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you say, offended yet intrigued by her implications.

“I mean, you knew of the rumors before dating him, Y/N.” Shoko adds, you sigh. That, you did. “I don’t want to say I told you so, but…”

“I guess I was hoping they weren’t real, either.” You slowly admit. “…What am I going to do, Shoko?”

A breakup isn’t exactly what you had in mind, certainly not what you wanted to do….

But why do that now when you could take advantage of this exploitable opportunity? An opening all too obvious to Shoko, which she doesn’t hesitate to let you know.

“Give him a taste of his own medicine.” She suddenly suggests. “He told you, didn’t he? That you were good to be with other men.”

“But I don’t want to.” You shake your head. “I don’t—I don’t think I can.”

“It’s exactly the same, just another face if that’s what you’re wondering.” Shoko explains, but to you, it was much deeper than that, always has been, for an emotional personal like you.

It’s why she was so angry that your beloved boyfriend was quick to disregard your feelings.

“Ok, sure, let’s say I agree.” You play along. “How do I even start? It’s been a while since I’ve been in the dating scene—I don’t even know if I’m still… desirable.”

Oh, if you only knew some were dying for this moment.

The first to approach you, and shockingly no less than a day after, was Gojo.

It was through an unexpected text, making you surprised he still had your number after all that time—or at all, considering you didn’t really text anyone outside of your family, close friends, and… Naoya.

Satoru once belonged to your social circle, but due to unknown reasons of his own, most likely to do with Suguru, he strayed.

Either way, you responded as amicably expected.

S: [Are you doing anything tonight?]

Y: [No… why?]

S: [Let’s get something to eat 😋]

Y: [Did you text the wrong person?]

S: [Wait, is this not Y/N’s number?]

Y: [It is…]

S: [Then I’ll pick you up later at Shoko’s apartment, 7 alright for you?]

Y: [Wait, how do you even know where I’m staying?]

S: [It’s a date, then! See you soon!]

It was good to see that Satoru remained as… well, pushy as ever. Not that you were glad to have been pulled into this outing without further precedent, but you eventually succumbed to the flow, and soon, you were in one of the fanciest restaurants of the city, sitting at a table Satoru had gotten through a reservation (difficult to do so given the status of the establishment, guess he can do anything that he sets his mind to), while chatting the evening away with just about anything that crossed his mind.

Regardless of how… oddly this situation came to be, you still found enjoyment in catching up with an old friend of yours. It had been so long since anyone had seen him, many even thought he had left the country all together.

Not that you had a way to know, since your connections were already limited thanks to Naoya—One of the many things you’ve had to sacrifice in to keep your attention solely on him.

…

Was your relationship with him always this consuming?

Well, you had lots of catch up with Satoru either way—it almost felt like you were getting to know him all over again! Happy to see that he essentially remained the same (somewhat irritating) goofball he always was.

But unfortunately, just as the good remained, the bad also prevailed, which you’d be reminded of when going for a walk around the city, just a few blocks down the main road when both were approached by a group of women, who upon catching sight of him and his undeniable attractiveness, knew they needed his attention.

That’s the thing with Satoru. Raised as the heir of a highly prestigious company, he just never got enough of it. Always wanting more and more, and not afraid to do whatever necessary to get it, careless if it was to the detriment of others.

Thus, you assumed it wouldn’t take long before he completely ignored you in favor of them, leaving you behind.

When talking about him, you normally wouldn’t care if he left you or not. He was just another friend, long accustomed to his ways. It was just… never like that.

But after all that happened with Naoya, it’s like your still-healing wound reopened, pain sharper when slowly reminded that even with a friend, you weren’t good enough to retain their attention, less their care…

Well, at least it was a good distraction, and you got to see Satoru again. You wonder how much would a taxi cost to take—

“Seriously, couldn’t you be any denser?? I’m on a date here!”

As if you’d been showered with a bucketful of ice-cold water, you freeze, blinking while slowly turning to see him and his angered face.

Did you… Did you hear him right?

“Get lost.” Satoru doesn’t even bother letting them respond before his hand is already on your back, gently pushing you forward and away from the group, leaving behind both the distraught, slightly spiteful women…

And your erroneous preconceptions.

As he goes back to the previous conversation you two were having, acting as if nothing happened, even suggesting getting something sweet to serve as dessert —your choice, he’d tease— all the self-doubt you felt for his actions immediately evaporates.

It was simple, more likely unintentional, but his gesture in defending your importance, highlighting the fact he wanted to be with you, against how he usually behaved…

Made you feel special, realizing that perhaps it wasn’t that hard to be somewhat of a decent person.

Yet, your feelings…

“It was a nice night out.” Satoru would say once parked outside Shoko’s apartment complex, signifying the end of your unexpected yet pleasurable evening with him.

“Yeah, it was… nice.”

“I hope we can do this again.” But you don’t keep your hopes up, not when your feelings for Naoya were still there, prickling at the back of your mind, inundating you with a sense of wrongfulness, for you were never one to offer the other cheek, regardless of what your estranged boyfriend was or wasn’t doing.

Unless Gojo were to do something to make you… well, not change your mind, but rattle your beliefs, if only for a moment, when he ruffled the top of your head, giving you a smile, before softly kissing your forehead.

Alongside the reminder that…

“You’re too pretty to be upset about someone like him.”

Albeit archaic, his words convinced you that perhaps… you could do with another day like this.

The second to approach you, yet again to much of your surprise, is Geto. Just a few days after Satoru did. Although his invitation was much more… palpable.

In other words, you were getting lunch with Shoko when he made his “sudden” appearance, joining the two for a bite, before driving both back to her apartment, only voicing his intentions when she was out the car, leaving you alone.

Although sweet, wholeheartedly intending to spend time with you, you could still that some of it lingered the realms of an unspoken competition between him and Satoru—which you didn’t know whether to be flattered by, or worried…

“—and let me guess. He spent the whole evening talking about himself.”

Somewhat, not that you cared to justify, really, for you were far more enthralled in learning all that he’s been up to since he left.

But it was the truth either way.

Geto sighs.

“We’ll do something better.” And so, is how the date begins, by first taking you to the mall, window shopping through essentially every store that crossed your path, while catching up with him—he too had disappeared for a while, motives unclear, although the common theory was that he had a nasty falling out with Gojo. But now it seems they’re on good terms given the way he occasionally mentioned him throughout the conversation.

Beyond that, you assumed Geto also took this visit as a good opportunity to go through some pending errands, maybe get something for himself as well—or… for someone else.

The things he was looking at were quite eye-catching, after all, very gift appropriate.

Regardless of who it was intended to, you were right to assume they were special to him if he was considering buying a diamond necklace…

But yet again, that’s what you believed—reality was simply much different.

Or obvious.

“Why don’t you try it on?”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you wanted to try it on— I know it’ll look beautiful on you.” He’d say that, genuinely, with just about anything he deemed suitably for you, ranging from jewelry to clothes…

With your face flaring every single time.

“Oh—I—I don’t—” you stammer, struggling whether to decline his offer because this is all too luxurious for your taste…

Or because you were still processing the words that made you blush in the first place… alongside the fact that at one point, his hand had reached for yours without even noticing, intertwining his fingers with yours and staying that way while the two continued to walk around the mall.

Just… why did Satoru and Suguru decided to appear out of the nowhere?

“No, thank you.” Is what you eventually manage to say. If he’s noticed your nerves, he doesn’t say, instead, he simply gives your hand a soft squeeze, followed by another equally charming smile. “I don’t feel like trying out things either way.”

“Don’t worry about it, then. Perhaps another time.”

At his promise, you can’t hold back your skin from growing increasingly hotter, doing your best to instead focus on the movie the two agreed to watch, with little to no success, of course, considering Geto also took this opportunity to unconsciously drape his arm over your shoulders and move you closer.

While stereotypical, it still manages to fluster, and that’s how you’d remain for the rest of the date: even when getting something to eat, or when it was time to take you back to Shoko’s apartment once late enough.

But on the way back to the parking lot, you’re able to snap out of this trance when something catches your attention, just by the corner of your eye, effectively stopping you on your tracks.

Something simple, like a minimal black halter dress… unintentionally the same model you’ve wanting to try since forever, but never daring to do so, believing that your body was unbefitting of such style—and quickly, you moved on.

Your gaze didn’t linger much on it beyond a few mere seconds, certainly not for Suguru to notice, or so you considered…

But when the next day comes, a package is suddenly delivered at Shoko’s apartment, with your name on it, that by various personal reasons you open with great anticipation, growing distraught when seeing it had to do nothing with what you projected—

Quickly flustered upon realizing that the sender was Suguru all along, demonstrating his attentiveness by gifting you the same dress you saw last night, as well as his intentions of seeking something more with you.

“I enjoyed our time together. I wish to see you again—hopefully with this dress.”

You didn’t think you were too obvious when it came to your reaction, but at Shoko’s mention, you finally acknowledge you’ve been smiling, heart loudly pounding against your chest as you lovingly held the dress, moved by his gesture…

For when was the last time someone had gifted you something to your liking, without having to beg for it? Without having to justify why you wanted it?

…

…

Had it really been that long?

Just what else was missing in your relationship with Naoya…?

Or perhaps, not wanting to face?

…

Your feelings, to begin with.

Because as attentive and caring Satoru and Suguru had been, neither were courageous enough to acknowledge the situation that put you in their reach in the first place, opting to instead reap the benefits, but ignore the rest.

It wasn’t malicious, not at all. It’s been stated by now that they truly cared for you, always checking in on you whenever possible.

It’s just that… they didn’t feel comfortable doing so yet, believing they were far from appropriate, or close enough, to do so.

Judging by those characteristics, the only one worthy enough, and the one that would end up confronting you for that matter, was Nanami, who wanted to see you as soon as he found out the horrible situation Naoya had forced you to but struggled to do so thanks to his strenuous new job.

But once he was free, the first thing he did was call you, eventually meeting in Shoko’s apartment (she was gone for the day, for privacy matters, how convenient) and thus, everything else unfolded.

“Why are you even dating Naoya if he’s hurting you so much?”

“I—I don’t think that’s for you to discuss.” You objected, going through a roller coaster of emotions, a combination of unwillingness to speak of the matter, and fear of admitting the truth.

To talk about something like this was never an easy matter, more so when the situation was already deep in hot water…

Yet, his assertive nature didn’t come as a surprise to you anymore, nor permitted you to avoid it.

Nanami had always been this way, the one willing to speak about difficult things, rip the bandage, careless if you were prepared for it or not.

And let everything that is meant to happen, happen.

“My relationship is something only I should speak about! And when I feel ready for it…”

“Not when I see how much it’s hurting you.” He rebutted. “When was the last time you were genuinely happy at his side? Or where you didn’t have to sacrifice your personal life just to keep him happy?”

It’s obvious what he’s referring to—Nanami is another one of your friends you’ve lost contact with due to Naoya’s… jealousy. But different from Satoru and Suguru, he cared too much to just let you go, consistently reaching out to you whenever possible—even when you never answered.

“You don’t know what we agreed on—”

“I don’t think that losing your friends was part of that.”

“You don’t know him, you don’t know Naoya at all!’

“And you do?” Nanami counters, breath hitching at your throat, upset by his abruptness. “You once said Naoya was crude, but he’d never do anything to willingly hurt you—and yet, here you are, in an open relationship you clearly didn’t want.”

“Kento—that’s—” your voice trembles, his words too close for comfort. “That’s not—"

“Then why? Why do you keep tolerating him?” Nanami frowns. “Do you hate yourself that much?”

“What? No!” You shake your head, aghast by his accusation. “That’s not it, at all!”

“Then what is it, Y/N? What could possibly entail sticking around with a man that has done nothing but hurt you?”

“Stop it…”

“Seeing other women while still being with you? Is that your idea of a good relationship?”

“Kento, please—”

“It’s never my intention to offend you, but I can’t help believing you’re growing desperate—seeking for something you can’t have with him! So why? Why do you try so hard to make it work, when he clearly doesn’t deserve—"

“Because I don’t want to be alone, ok?!” You eventually shriek, tears in your eyes as his words stung your heart too deeply, too much to handle in silence anymore. “It’s just as simple as that!”

Nanami’s eyes widen, taken aback by your unexpected outburst and confession, yet, as surprised as he was, if not bothered, he was also very, greatly hurt by its meaning.

Your words unknowingly disregarding everyone else that had ever been there for you.

And such, he cannot believe it. He doesn’t—not when he’s been there all along.

“Don’t lie to me, Y/N.” Nanami insists. “What is the truth? Is he forcing you to this??”

“No, Kento, he’s not!” you objected. “I truly want to be with him, because he’s the only one that has ever wanted to be with me.”

“You know very well that’s not true.”

“Seems like our perspectives vary greatly.” You frown. “I remember attempts of trying to get close to people, only to be pushed to the side when someone better came along. Person after person, they all just… ignored me; either because I was overshadowed by my family, or because I was too mundane to compete with others.

Until… Naoya came along. He was the only one that saw me for who I was. Even though it was mostly because I fit the mold he wanted.

But even then… I was happy to play along, because it meant that for the first time in my life, I meant someone to something.”

“That’s what you think? That you didn’t mean anything to no one else?”

“It’s not what I think—It’s what I know.” You sniffle, doing your best to hold back the tears pooling in your eyes from falling. “…Even now I know I’m only relevant because I’m Naoya’s girlfriend… but once that’s gone, I’m sure no one will look my way—"

“That’s not true.” He swiftly interjects.

“…And how would you know that? How would you know that this time, fate wouldn’t be cruel to me, like it has always been?!”

“Because there is someone that cares for you.”

“Let me guess, my parents.”

“No—I didn’t mean them.” Nanami frowns.

“Then who—” you breathe. “Who are you referring to??”

And suddenly, thanks to his softening eyes and growing silence…  something clicks in your mind and all makes sense.

His anger, his protectiveness, his insistence…

There was a reason behind them all, only now does it become clear to you.

“…Why didn’t you say anything?” you softly ask, heart sinking when looking back at the dismissive way you treated him, always standing by your side, and yet…

“Because you seemed happy with Naoya.” Nanami adds. “Perhaps I was at fault too, for not having spoken of my feelings before, but… after seeing the way you smiled with him, I supposed it was for the best if I instead, supported you as a friend.

But because I’m your friend, I can’t allow you to go on thinking no one has ever cared for you. That no one has loved you for who you are… or will never do.

And most importantly, remind you that this—this isn’t what happiness looks like.”

At his open declaration, you couldn’t stop the wave of overwhelming emotions from washing over you, a combination of shock, sadness, and perhaps… longing, wondering what would’ve happened if you knew of his feelings back then.

Would you have accepted them? Or would everything continue as it does now?

Well, one thing is for sure—Nanami would’ve never suggested something like this; the thought wouldn’t even cross his mind!

But it’s too late now. You’ve made your decision and now, you were suffering the consequences…

However, you didn’t have to be alone anymore—and Nanami would reassure you of such by the following words, the same one’s he wished to have told you back then… and possibly save you from all this pain.

“I love you, Y/N. I always did, and I’ll always do. Even if we never see each other again—you’ll always remain in my heart.”

Because he would rather die than to make decisions that hurt you.

Leading you to unwittingly discover what it was to feel loved, for the first time in your life.

A heartwarming sensation, with no strings attached, just… someone that wishes your well-being above everything else, alongside your happiness, and nothing more.

And such, something grows inside you, something that pushes you to be closer to him, far beyond this day—

Coincidentally, he’s also the first one you kiss.

After Nanami’s visit, your days would slowly become brighter, although the grey cloud of Naoya’s seeming infidelity still lingered in the background.

But even then, your mind didn’t dwell on him for long, difficult to do so thanks to Satoru’s, Suguru’s, and now, Nanami’s interventions, as well as Shoko’s advice of enjoying the best of your new status.

The men involved didn’t seem to mind… too much.

Sure, their jealousy would sometimes rise to the occasion (from one person in specific) but as long as you continued to be attentive with them, they were willing to “share”, believing it was only a matter of time before you left that jerk-of-a boyfriend of yours once and for all, settling for on them instead.

Long story short, everything seemed to go on peacefully with your new routine…

Until the sudden appearance of a man you never expected to see, less set his eyes on you, since the only time you’ve seen him was that one instance you became acquainted with him thanks to Naoya’s business, never to speak again, disrupted all you held true.

While you might’ve seen this moment as expendable, forgettable even, to him, it was the fated day he knew he must have you—a growing desire to make you his when the time was right.

Naoya’s stupidity opening that door.

Sukuna was the owner of a rival company, a fierce competitor that always made the Zen’in uneasy whenever mentioned, constantly keeping them on their toes—because with a man as belligerent as him, to let their guard down, if just for the slightest, meant the complete loss of all they’ve worked for.

It’s safe to say that Sukuna had garnered the reputation of being aggressively intimidating, thus it was only right to assume that his approach would be of the same nature.

“I—I can’t” is what little you manage to muster through the fear constricting your throat; you still remember the eeriness you felt when meeting him that one time, never believing it could worsen… until you had him just a few feet away.

“I wasn’t asking.” He responds, the tone in his voice not only highlights his sincerity, but also warns you there won’t be a second chance.

Urging you to do what’s best for you, less…

Perhaps out of fear of experiencing his anger, some kind of retribution, or because deep inside, past your worry and hesitation, you were genuinely intrigued to know what a man like him might’ve found interesting in you… you accept.

Because after all was said and done, he was far different to what you were normally accustomed to…

As well as to willing to bargain for.

You don’t know what it was—maybe it was your blinding intrigue, your desire to taste something way beyond your reach… or because you took Shoko’s words a bit too literally, even though with him, she insisted you to be careful…

You ended up following Sukuna into his apartment; And not only that, but you also let him show you what true desire meant, in more ways than one, sure to never forget.

“Su—Sukuna—!” you’d breathe, whatever little you could muster through the tightening of your chest and the fuzziness of your mind, harshly gripping his arms, as he pushes you over the edge and into your release for what seemed to be the nth time that night. “Sukuna, please—I need—I need a break—”

“No—you will take it!” he groans, holding your waist and keeping you in place as his cock deep into your core, each time harsher than the last one, bruising that spot that always made you see stars over and over again; unexpectedly, a place that Naoya was all too ignorant of, Sukuna being amongst the few, if not the only, to achieve such feat.

No wonder you were reacting the way you were, losing yourself in pleasure, because just as he teased…

“This is the first time you’ve ever been with a real man, isn’t it?” He laughs when feeling you quiver against his hold, feeble against the sensations he’s relentlessly giving you, finding your numbing reaction, eyes rolling to the back of your head, mouth agape, and toes curling… to be quite adorable.

Doing all in his power to get more of this reaction—hopefully, beyond this night too.

“They simply don’t make the cut! —But how could they? With a cunt as lewd as yours, one isn’t enough!”

Sukuna doesn’t find satisfaction in seeing you with other men, less when you’re still “taken”.

But ever the one to seek advantage, even in the most uneven of fields, Sukuna was quick to see the endless possibility this opportunity provided—more than ready to exploit them…

“Don’t—don’t say that!” you’d moan, with such an exciting cry, Sukuna just couldn’t help prolonging this night. “That’s not—that’s not tru—ah!”

And keep you all for himself.

“I don’t want you staying at that hideous apartment anymore.” Sukuna would mutter the moment you opened your eyes; having fallen asleep soon after the strenuous ordeal, and suffering from its aftermath as soon as conscious.

“It’s not… nasty.” You groan, slowly blinking as you look back at him, doing your best to push yourself up from the bed, only to fall back down when resulting too weak to do so. However, even when dealing with the sharp pains across your body alongside unbearable drowsiness, you’re capable enough to defend Shoko. “…It’s a nice place.”

He chuckles.

“Yeah, I’m sure it is.” Sukuna then reaches over to the nearby bedside table, sliding the first drawer open and taking out a pair of keys which he’d give over to you soon after.

You look at it perplexedly, confused as to their meaning… before growing shocked, slumber completely gone from your body when listening the following statement.

“From now on, you’re staying in my apartment.”

“Wh—what?” First that, and now, this? Sukuna meant no joke when it came to you. “No, I can’t accept this!”

“You sure love making me repeat myself, woman.” He scoffs. “It’s not a matter of whether you can or cannot—you will.”

It’s an amazing talent of Sukuna to always sound threatening even when dealing with the most ordinary of things, but either way, you’re not interested in testing how far his limits went, and thus, (not that you had any other option) you accept the keys while silently wondering what the future holds for you by making this decision…

“Uraume will help you move your things. I better see you here when I come back after work—less you wish to be punished again.” He smirks, fingers sliding along your skin before pulling you close to him once more, a whine escaping your lips as you realize what is to transpire next yet again.

Guess you’ll find out soon enough.

…

…

…

As well as what Naoya’s been up to, for the day Sukuna allowed you to, you decide to go back to your shared apartment to pick up a few things to take with… him, now that you’re essentially living together.

It was a very awkward arrangement, if you thought about it, one that Shoko was strictly opposed to, but… well, you would be lying if you didn’t admit you were having a good time (outside of the painful pleasures he pushed you through every night) for a plethora of luxurious reasons. Far nicer than what you were used to seeing with Naoya.

Which you could openly enjoy due to Sukuna’s absence, rarely getting to see him due to work commitments, Uraume representing him instead… not that it was any better, for they were just as awkward as awkward can get.

And yet, not as much as what happened when you walked through the door of your shared apartment with Naoya, welcomed by the one person you did not expect to see there, believing him to be completely enraptured in his new freedom, given the silence he always responded with whenever you texted or called him.

“Naoya?” You asked, although confused, you were more… shocked to see his distraught appearance, almost as if he hadn’t been able to sleep for the last few days—or at all.

“What are you doing here?” you add. “I thought… well, I thought you’d be… somewhere else.”

“I can say the same thing about you.” He frowns. “Is it true that you’re staying with that woman?”

“Her name is Shoko…” you murmur; even when away, Naoya remains…

Either way, given his attention on her, it seems like he doesn’t know about Sukuna, yet.

Or Gojo.

Or Geto.

Or Nanami.

Because if he did, it would’ve been the first thing he mentioned; his jealous nature never one to take as a jest.

Unless…

“But yes, I am staying with her.” You confirm. “What about… you? Where have you been staying?”

… and still, you can’t help but worry for him.

“Here.” He confesses, you blink.

“…Really?” Even when skepticism is evident in your voice, he doesn’t not say anything else. Instead…

“Yes. And… it’s time for you to come back home.”

“Why? What happened?” you fret, naturally fearing the worst…

Which you were right in assuming, just that… it wouldn’t be what you expected.

“You—you had enough fun.” Naoya unwittingly stammers, a scowl on his face, or was it sorrow? As he continued. “It’s time for you to remember you’re mine and come back home.”

“Enough… fun?” You slowly repeat, invertedly hurt by his words, as if he weren’t the one that set up this situation in the first place, yet, still overwhelmingly confused as to what he meant.

Suspicion that perhaps he did know about your flings after all begins to settle in your mind, but it isn’t until his following words that it finally takes roots.

“Don’t hide it, Y/N—I know you’ve seen others. And quite frequently too!”

“You’re… you’re doing the same thing.” You immediately respond, scurrying to defend yourself. “And you don’t see me complaining…”

Even if you wanted so much to do so.

“No, of course not—too busy with them, aren’t you??”

“Excuse me? You’re—You’re one to talk! You never answered any of my texts, or calls!” you gasp. “Do you even know how… how…”

Hurt I was?

Guessing by his absence, you assume not.

… Oh, how you wished Naoya kept silent. Kept his words to himself and went on acting as he always did, because maybe, you wouldn’t have felt this burning anger stirring inside you, created by the reassurance by those around you, the reminder that you were still deserving of being cared for, appreciated.

Far more than what Naoya has ever done for you in the past few years.

That much you see now.

“… Let me get this straight, Naoya… you want me to come back… because you don’t want me to see others, even though you did the same thing??” you say, and by the gloomy look in Naoya’s eyes, you could tell you guessed right, stinging a nerve while in the process.

Yet not a sentiment that insulted him, but rather… reminded him of the shocking truth he’s keeping away from you.

Hoping it stays that way, unless you place the pieces together yourself.

“Do not talk to me like that.” He warns, you frown.

“I’m just stating the truth—you went to see someone as soon as you left that day, didn’t you?”

“That’s not—why does it even matter at this point? You did the same afterwards!”

“Again with that—You were the one that suggested it in the first place!” you gasp. “Why does it bother you so much?? Didn’t you…. Weren’t you encouraging me to it?!”

“Yeah, but it’s not like I expected you to actually—”

Realizing the imprudence of his words, he suddenly goes silent.

“Expected to actually… what?” you frown.

Naoya doesn’t answer, all he does is scoff before looking away.

A few more seconds of silence, something clicks in your mind.

Anger finally taking a hold of your emotions.

Because just how foolish could you have been?

“Please, come back.” Is what Naoya eventually says. “I don’t want an open relationship anymore—let’s just forget about this and… move on.”

“And why would I do that?” you scowl. “Don’t you have other dates to go to?”

…

Silence yet again.

“Naoya?”

“I don’t. I… never did.”

The truth jolts you far more than you imagined, for it completely contradicts all that you once believed to be true, replacing the pain you’d been feeling since that day, the tears, the anger, and all your actions… with nothing.

As if everything you suffered… was void of any true meaning.

But that was only one point of view, you had yet to see Naoya’s. The truth as to why he hadn’t gotten any dates.

Or at least… successful ones.

Naoya did go out with women that caught his interest, having his go-to procedure ready to go when it came to impressing them, such as taken them to an expensive restaurant, gifting them luxurious jewelry, or simply showing off the privilege his family name provided— things he was sure would get him in their pants.

But when he thought it was only a matter of seconds before he got lucky, they would coldly ignore him, turn around, and… disappear.

It was difficult for him to understand why that happened, considering all that he “offered” …

What he failed to realize, though, is that one simple yet big problem stood between him and his ultimate goal: a personality many weren’t willing to tolerate, especially with the intensity he seemed to go on about, no matter the amount of riches he represented.

And soon, it wouldn’t take long before rumors of his personality began to spread into the circles he was involved in, not like it wasn’t happening already beforehand, Naoya was already well-known as a bratty heir with an equally explosive temperament—he just became more… popular.

Rumors he never had issues with, unbothered by them, because you… well, you seemed to not care for them. Willingly tolerating him instead, perhaps far more than he was deserving of, and keeping by his side, no matter what.

Giving him a false sense of confidence.

Unfortunately, he wouldn’t come to realize this until seeing you with someone else—whispers and sightings of your dates, far more successful than any of his attempts, and without even trying, was enough to ignite a fire under his ass and come rushing to you.

Falsely believing it was just a matter of calling it off for everything to return as it was—you by his side, and his blinding jealousy effectively gone. Because only he deserved to have you.

Failing to realize the damage he’s already struck onto this relationship,

Yet, he still came back, shamelessly expecting he’d be received with the forgiveness, compassion and care you unconditionally provided, no matter the gravity of his mistakes…

But what seemed noble, prophetic even, for him—

Was only insulting to you, and when the nature of his actions reveals itself to you, your anger transforms intofury.

Because a man like Naoya shouldn’t have the freedom to openly discard you, and then want you back when things aren’t going his way—without facing consequences.

You were not there to be a steppingstone of sorts, be there through every single step of the road, sacrifice your life… only to be replaced just because he wants.

It was painful, it was unjust…

And it was unpunished.

For him to make it up for you, he’ll have to face the repercussions of his acts, experience just how much you suffered…

Only then, would you consider going back to him.

“I’m sorry, but I have things to do.”

“What?” Naoya’s eyes widen. “What do you mean you have things to do, Y/N? What could you…—you’re going to see someone.”

“And what if I am?” you frown. “I’m not doing anything I’m not allowed to do.”

“I don’t want this anymore!” He gasps. “I don’t want you to see anyone else, just me!”

“…Then you’ll just have to wait until I’m done. Until I’m sure we belong together, you know? You said so yourself, I just need to get it out of my system before I make a decision—” At being served a spoonful of his own medicine, the color in Naoya’s face disappears. “Only then, will I’ll come back.”

If you ever do.

“Y/N—Wait!”

Because after what you have planned for the following weeks, Naoya would only be lucky if you even do as little as think of him.

Shoko is the one that let everyone know of your new "single" life. Except Sukuna, that man has ears everywhere, and when he saw it as his moment, he rose to the occasion. Nice.

Not gonna lie, this idea has been on my mind for a while now, like, as soon as Y/N is single people begin to hound her. Everyoneeeeeeeee Naoya really does not realize the stupidity he committed until it's too late. :)

And there you have it, my take on an open relationship with him! I once read that open relationships don't work, unless you're talking about celebrities, and I'm honestly inclined to accept that...

But yeah, him doing this is like the worst thing Naoya could think of; there's just so many things that could go wrong—safe to say, in another universe 1) Naoya would never suggest it. 2) Y/N would never accept it lol.

Anyways, thank you so much for sending in this ask! I hope it was to your liking :> ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Take care, and hope to see you soon!

[heli0s-writes]

forget your perfect offering*

summary: Captain America hasn’t been home in years and it’s turned him into something a little lost, a little broken.

a/n: Hi hi!! Guess who's back on the Nomad Steve angst/smut train after 5 months??? 3k words. Please stop reading if you're not 18+ This is very Clumsy adjacent.

--

Captain America hasn’t been home in years and it’s turned him into something a little lost, a little broken. Going dark on the United States government when it’s put a price on your head will do that, he supposes. He’s even picked up a new habit of flinching at shadows despite maneuvering in them for eternity.

Not eternity, but he’s dramatic and full throttle. Never once learned that some things can be half-measures, can be compromised on. He’s got his handful of soldiers—friends— and he can’t forget that they’re friends because soldiers are pawns and friends are crucial.

Back then, he was just a newly reanimated statuette, a votive figurine to justice rendered flesh and bone and so damn brittle. And how could he believe it would last? The entire thing fell apart within a few years—a team scattered to pieces; an entire nation’s vision discarded on the side of the road.

A lot of Americans are angry with him for that, and most days he tries not to be angry at himself, which is stupid according to you and Sam and Nat. But being angry at propaganda and history and circumstances is too intangible to do much with, so at least being angry with himself means he can kneel into a fight, leave too little in the tank for the trip back, find a way to be punished for his transgressions.

He’d always been reckless, but it’s becoming a flag much to red to ignore.

You tell him he’s got a death wish. Plain and simple: keep it up and you’ll die, and nothing more, leaving the jet ride in silence, everyone averting their eyes. But he just wipes the blood out of his mouth and says, “Hasn’t seemed to work out for me yet.”

Back at the house—the house, not his house, or anybody’s house, certainly not a home in its unremarkable exterior, interior, living spaces cobbled together with rickety, mismatched furniture and chipped ceramic kitchenware—he returns to his book. Sinks himself into the reading nook and opens it up to a page he’s been pretending to pay attention to.

Natasha showers first, Sam crashes into his bed face-down, and you linger by the old T.V., poking at the adjacent radio.

“Hey, death boy.”

He looks up, startled. “Death boy?”

“Yeah,” you grin, glancing over your shoulder. “Death boy. Your new superhero name.”

You say it breezily, eyes half-mast because it’s been a real dog-shit kind of day and even Steve can hardly focus.

Sam’s dead to the world and Nat’s going on 30 minutes under water, so it’s a fair estimate to say that it’s to the point where he can feel how powered-down his brain is, and that if he tries to speak more than three phrases at a time, it’ll hardly make any damn sense. Or, inevitably, make matters worse.

He tries for controlled, comes out not so much. “It’s a little morbid, don’t you think?”

You gasp, scandalized. “Silly me, you haven’t been morbid at all recently. Gosh, it’s not like you were trying to get gutted—he was swinging so wide and slow, how could I think you’d manage dodging in time?” You clasp your hands over your mouth dramatically, “How could I suggest—”

“That’s enough.” Steve pinches his nose-bridge with one hand and closes the book with the other. He’s going to drown himself in the bathtub when Natasha’s finished—go drama—but he’s grinning a little bit, not dumb enough to hide when he’s been caught out.

You punch a button on the radio, tune it to a station that’s only slightly screeching with interference. There’s a discernible piano melody but he doesn’t know the song. You tap along, feeling out the rhythm, and then you cast your eyes to the reading nook he’s crushed into before pointing at the middle of the floor.

For all his miserable ruminating he always forgets to account for you at the end of the day, standing there and waiting for him like he’s got any choice. He declares all sorts of bullshit about how making the right decision can feel like no decision at all when it’s inherently justified; reason should feel like reflex, ethics an extension. But lately, the only reflex he’s felt is closer to vanishing.

He’s disappearing from view a little more each night, reduced to a crumbling idol of an endangered faith because humanity’s stopped believing in him and part of him is following the same course. He’s become an old relic chipped away in the flow of time, and some days he’d rather just be good and gone.

Keep it up and you’ll die.

Part of him already has. Part of him’s already in the ground.

“Come on,” you say with a surprising amount of patience, eyes soft and hand extended. “Are you gonna get up or am I gonna have to drag your ass again?”

The song is plunking away, cutting in and out intermittently, notes quivering on scratches of static. Nat’s started to dry her hair, the sound like a tornado alarm trapped in a bathroom but it’s persistent, fighting the wailing blow-dryer for an audience. She’s probably freezing cold because the house’s water heater is shoddy at best and Sam can fix that but he’s been exhausted lately and no one’s going to complain because they’ve never complained about their situation-- not once.

He bites down, frowns a little deeper, but then he’s on his feet, giving chase like you could take him somewhere whole and unbroken. Somewhere he’s been craving for. His hands around your waist are careful, resting his chin on top of your head as you nuzzle in.

He asks through gritted teeth, “Listening for a heartbeat?”

“I know where your heart is.”

He’s so goddamn maudlin, can’t stop the bitterness from lashing out. “Where’s that?”

“With us, death boy. With me.”

He makes a noncommittal sound, dismissive and very, very rude of him, but he’s on a roll and won’t be appeased. You lazily read the lines of his face with stunned eyes, then touch your nose to his bearded chin as you lean up.

You stroke his scalp, spinning the feathery ends of his long hair. “You want to be hurt so bad, don’t you?” Your nails rake down the length of his strong neck. “Is that what you’re used to? Is it more comfortable that way?”

“Enough,” he murmurs faintly, but makes no move to push you away, only stepping in time, rocking along. When your hand tightens into a fist to pull at him, he bites down, shuts his eyes. You do it again, harder, and then let go, letting your fingers spread at the base of his skull, cradling it like a child.

“You want to be beaten within an inch of your life, want to be pried open so you can check if you’re still capable of dying.” Cold words, but your breath is hot, and he’s starting to feel it—that telltale shiver at the base of his spine at the way you won’t break eye contact.

“I know, I know,” you coo, “it hasn’t happened yet.” You move away, smiling big and dark and glistening with promise. “But listen, Steve, all you have to do is ask.”

He can’t tell what expression he’s making, only that your pupils open to swallow him. You’re staring at him, not through him. Taking in his flesh and the warm blood cascading down his face.

The night is taking its toll, it seems. Collecting on long, hard hours, making the both of you reckless.

He thinks about months ago, and the complication of ethics in the way.

Not sleeping with teammates, not losing the fucking plot no matter how much he craved losing it for a couple of hours. There were several weeks before it went sideways, before Bucharest and the Accords, where he spent doing nothing but dedicating himself to daydreaming. He sank into the quiver of his own body as he imagined you and everything he wanted to know by touch.

There were dances, like this. Swaying back and forth in Sam’s backyard and gala celebrations, onlookers getting a few ideas about what his eyes were communicating when he’d trace the curve of your shoulders or the delicate insides of your wrists. How everyone else might follow Captain America into the jaws of death but he’d follow only you, headlong, beyond, and into the goddamn afterlife if you asked him.

But there was a line he couldn’t cross. A soft, tangerine horizon much too far out of his reach when the dark was at his back, beating him to the ground. Making him flinch from warmth because entanglement was too complicated and love was too kind.

Tony asked him what it felt like to fuck up so astronomically. Nat only clucked her tongue, more disappointment in a single sound than Steve had heard from many grand lectures.

Because you would have been vibrant and glorious, damn it. You would have giggled— giggled— when you made love, crooned his name like a songbird and touched him everywhere, all at once. You would have kissed fire back into him, licked your way into the center of that votive figurine and traced his broken heart. You would have excavated him, clawed him out clean, led him into the light.

So, he knows. He knew then, knows now, knows for the rest of his days when he’s let a beautiful thing slip through his fingers.

But sometimes, this happens and his hands feel like they’ve still held on despite his attempts. Sometimes you brush his knuckles, smile at him small and sweet and come into his makeshift room, sit on the side of his bed and exist side by side. Sometimes there wouldn’t even be conversation.

But when you linger by the door, gaze slowly raking down the length of his body and his throat, his mouth, all ten of his fingertips—god, what he wouldn’t give then, to take you to the floor and declare fuck it.

Fuck ethics and fuck his entire life, if needed, because there was only you, only what he’d been needing for ages, only that brilliant and terrifying afterlife awaiting him.

The reflex, then, is not to disappear anymore, but to kneel in.

You say, both hands come to rest around his throat— because you’ve seen him now, seen him the entire time, “If you want it that much, Steve, I can give it to you. A hundred tiny deaths, so sweet and good, until it hurts so bad you really do feel like you’re dying.”

He gulps, Adam’s apple catching each of your fingers on the way up and back down. Says, “Yeah,” before he even registers it. He blurts, going cold and hot and shell-shocked, “I’d let you do anything you want.”

Just then, the bathroom door clatters open and Natasha steps out, towel wrapped around her as she pads across the living space toward her room.

She looks from you to Steve, briefly studying the single foot of distance between your faces, the forgotten music, the way he can’t seem to keep his breathing in order.

The way you’ve got his throat in your hands.

She doesn’t even stop as she passes by, carding her fingers through her hair for a final act of detangling. “Wilson sleeps heavy,” she yawns, which implies, I don’t, so keep whatever the hell it is you two are doing down.

Then she’s gone with only pressure left in her wake. Only his breath fighting with his lungs, his belly tight and hot and his flavorless mouth so fucking starved for yours.

You raise a judgmental eyebrow after he does nothing for a beat too long, too lost in potential backpedaling to advance the plot.  “That’s not asking, Steve.”

He’s stupid, dizzy, like he’s been dropped on his head, but not that stupid. He can’t keep his eyes off your mouth. Doesn’t even know if he says it, but tries anyway, “Will you please,” and the rest goes out the window. You lean in. You kiss him better than he could ever have imagined.

-

He’s living the teenage years he never had.

You kiss him like you’ve got all the time in the world—like it isn’t past four in the morning and the both of you are one silent minute away from slipping into unconsciousness. You kiss lazy and slow and sublime. You press a thumb at the corner of his mouth, touch inside of him, and he wants to do it back. But he wants it right.

“This,” he starts, almost whimpering when you run your teeth beneath his ear, molding your body to his, the two of you staggering into the wall and the end table and poor Natasha across the house must be digging up her earplugs. “I’m not good with—casual—”

“Yeah, you don’t think I know that?” You only pause for enough air to hassle him before taking his hands, your own so small over them, so much power over him, and place them on your waist. “You don’t think I know you’re an all-in kind of guy?”

Of course, you know. Of course, anyone who’s ever heard of Steven Grant Rogers can figure it out. It’s always going to be full throttle for him. Casual isn’t a word that exists in his dictionary, and he won’t compromise on that. He couldn’t do this any other way because now he wants to do it all—to feel you, inside out, across time and the universe and infinity.

He shucks off your clothes, doesn’t mind the grit of the day on your skin, wants it even, to know what you’re like every hour of every day. He tears off his own tac gear, can’t keep his mouth off yours for even a second as he stumbles across the floor.

When he reaches the bed, you climb on top, warm between your legs and so perfect over his thigh. He’s rocking his hips against yours, mouthing at your breasts, grabbing your ass and waist and snarling into your neck like an animal. Lazy and slow twists into frantic and desperate, him throbbing and throbbing against your skin.

He leans back, takes you down with him, bra strap limp at your elbows, panties to the side and he wedges back between the space of his thigh and your sex. He wants—wants.

“You’re warm,” he breathes.

When he pulls out, there’s a sloppy noise following your moan and he rubs his fingers together, awed at the glistening web slipping down to his palm.

One finger becomes two, the coat of slick up to his knuckles and he’s using too much tongue when he kisses you but you don’t mind that at all.

He’s not any kind of virgin but he really feels like one. In the sense that he’s turned on by everything. Too much stimulation. On his skin, in his brain, he’s immersed in one second while predicting the next, seeing the possible ways it could go. Too much pent-up desire swells up the length of his cock as he palms and presses it against the underside of your thigh for contact. His chest is heaving, breath stuttery, eyes wild and unfocused.

You grab his face, pull him away from your collar. You’re only a slight mess, but Christ, what a sight. He must be about fifty times worse because you’re grinning wide, looking him up and down as he arches forward to get you back.

You tut, “If I really wanted to kill you,” you say, “I’d leave you right now.”

“Please don’t,” he manages hoarsely, the fire in his belly lashing out.

“Because I’m so nice.”

“Yes.” And suddenly, his sunny face turns overcast, all the joyful cacophony from before muting. “Yes, you are.”

“Steve,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead with your hands for something to do with them.

He hauls himself up on his elbows, starting to feel upset.

You lean back on your palms, head lolling between your shoulder blades, aggrieved.

“Sorry,” he recants.

“Steve.”

He can’t make eye contact, but you don’t ask him to again, only touching his jaw with a finger and erasing the last few minutes with a nuzzle of your nose to his, like saying don’t worry about it, it’s okay.

Then, more kissing, more of that touch he dreamed about and he wants to kick his past self for missing it, for even daring to fantasize when the real thing is so much more.

The night melts away, each hour lasting a blink or an eternity—he can’t be bothered by it now. He figures the sun’s coming up, though, because there’s that haze of early morning past the gauzy, frayed curtain.

Your palms are on his chest, pawing at him for leverage each time you grind down, each time you swallow him back inside of you. You push, like an act of resuscitation— one, two, one, two— a rhythmic, electric, life-giving staccato beat that has him gasping for air, has him keening and groaning without any thought to how loud he might be.

And, fuck it, fuck it all. He is, admittedly, loud.

Sorry, Nat, he winces mentally before his brain’s wiped clear of all thought.

There’s nothing but you, and you, and you.

And that poor, broken heart inside of him, crushed to fine powder, being reworked into brilliance.

He lies there afterwards, gazing into the ceiling as he breathes back down to calm. There’s the thrall of exhaustion behind his eyes but it’s being overridden by a terrible, traitorous voice that’s telling him how he can’t seem to stop fucking up.

He can’t breathe suddenly, the room collapsing into a pinhole, darkness threatening the edges of his sight.

And then you say, because you always know what to say, “It’s okay to be a little broken,” you stroke his chest. “Baby, that’s how the light gets in.”

And the morning is breaking through fully now, streaks of it clearing up his eyes, cutting him to pieces beneath you.

“Yes,” he agrees and meets you for another lengthy kiss, every shrapnel inch of him raw and searing hot. All his exposed parts—the grief and agony and self-hatred—turned to gold. You touch his dark edges with your fingertips. You trace a new dawn’s light in his hair.

[localplaguenurse]

Playing a game with Pantalone but everytime one of you loses you have to remove one article of clothing and suffice to say you lost all your clothes rather quickly and now he's smirking on how shall he indulge in you this time

I thought this was a predator/prey situation at first, which would have been pretty pog, but then I remembered the dumb strip poker joke I made the other day and realized that’s probably what you were talking about-

So that’s what I’m gonna write

CONTENT WARNING: Playing strip poker, no full blown smut but still suggestive. I might circle back to this in the future because I have ideas, but I’m not in a super smutty mood. Honestly it’s more silly than anything, but 18+ please. Also I have only played the Luigi poker minigame so shhh.

You hate this game, you don’t know why you keep agreeing to play it, and you hate that it was all your idea to begin with. It sounded like a fun way for you and your husband to spice things up a little, and in general seemed like a fun way to bond. Sure, you figured he’d win the first few times you played, but you weren’t complaining at the time. Surely, he wouldn’t win every time, right?

… Right?

You glare at your hand because you don’t want to glare at Pantalone. It’ll mean you have to look at his stupid smug grin over his winning streak. You see it every time he suggests you two play a few rounds of strip poker. Tonight is no different, and though you love his face so much, you cannot stand looking at him right now.

You don’t question if you’re losing because you have terrible luck or if you’re just bad at poker anyways. You know it’s both. It also can’t help that your husband is very good at taking chances and placing bets. He never makes a decision until he’s certain of the outcome and that it will work in his favour. You find this trait very admirable, except for right now.

“Darling, are you alright?” Pantalone asks, faux concern lacing his words. “You’re shivering a little.”

You’re currently hugging a pillow to your bare chest, both to give yourself some dignity, and because you’re nearly nude. “I’m fine.”

He chuckles. “Well, if that’s the case, have you decided what your next move is?”

“I-I’m still thinking,” you grumble, body cold but face burning hot. Truth be told, your hand is shit. The only thing you have going for you are two fives, and that’s it. That may as well be nothing with how your game has been going. Pantalone’s only lost the shirt, and you’re pretty sure it’s because he felt bad for you and threw that round. You don’t know what’s worse, him pitying you, or that he still decimated you.

You take two cards out of your hand and discard them, leaving only the two fives and an ace. You’re already certain you’re losing the round anyways, so you might as well see if you can get another ace, or maybe a five. Just something to make your hand better than being just above trash.

“Interesting…”

“Shush.”

You pick up two new cards and place them in your deck. Let’s see, you had a five of hearts, five of diamonds, and an ace of spades. You’ve picked up–

No way.

You blink, trying not to let your shock show (your poker face isn’t that great, either). Those two new cards consist of an ace of diamonds, and a five of clubs. Holy shit. Holy shit. That’s a full house! The only way Pantalone can beat that is if he gets 4 of a kind, a straight flush or a royal flush. You actually have a chance! Not a chance of winning the game, Archons no, but you’ll be keeping your underwear on for a round longer.

You smile, and present your hand. “Full house.”

Pantalone’s eyebrows widen, and he smiles. “Oh, goodness! Look at you! You’re starting to get the hang of this now. That is very impressive, my darling.”

You cross your arms, giving him the smug grin he’s been giving you all evening.

He sighs. “That… makes this all the more painful, I’m afraid.”

You watch as Pantalone lays his cards down in front of you. Your eyes widen, and your jaw drops.

“... Absolutely not.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Are you kidding me!?” you ask. “A royal flush?! No, no I refuse… You did not just get that!”

“I assure you, darling,” he purrs, “I got it fair and square.”

You glare at him and his cards. An ace, a queen, a king, a jack, and a ten of hearts. Of course it has to be hearts, too.

“Now then, I think you know the rules.”

“Fine, fine, you win.” You move the pillow from your chest and toss it at his head. It makes contact, which makes him laugh. “I know the drill.”

“My my, you make it sound like such a horrible fate,” he teases. “Sure, I may have won again, but I think we both know this will be… equally rewarding for us, no?”

You roll your eyes. “Easy for you to say, champion strip poker king…”

“Oh, my little darling,” he coos in such a patronizingly sweet voice, “where’s the fun in being such a spoilsport? Don’t you enjoy playing with me?”

“I do, but it’s just frustrating that you’ve won every game we play.”

Pantalone laughs. “Then I suppose you’ll have to get good, as people say. Now, about my prize...”

[thetomorrowshow]

love is such a drag - ch. 6

in which Grian gets doused with water twice (but there's a worm the second time)

welp it's april fool's day so I thought it would be a fun time to update my silly scarian drag au :)

~

“What do I do?”

Mumbo twirls the metal puzzle between his fingers. “Dude, I still can’t believe the man is Scar.”

Grian throws his balled-up sock at him. “You’re here to give advice, not criticize,” he says imperiously. “Pearl didn’t criticize.”

“Not for lack of wanting to,” Pearl says under her breath. Grian throws his other sock at her.

“Really, though? Scar?” Mumbo says. “He’s . . . well, he’s Scar.”

“And you’re Mumbo,” Grian retorts. “I’m Grian. She’s Pearl. What else is new?”

“Yeah, but . . . it’s Scar,” Mumbo says lamely. When he fails to come up with any qualifiers to his statement, Grian turns back to Pearl.

“So?”

“So . . . what?”

“What do I do?”

Pearl sighs. Mumbo makes a sound that might be a choked laugh, but when Grian rounds on him, he’s just coughing into his shoulder.

This isn’t helpful. Neither of them are helpful. He should take his problems to someone who would actually listen to him and want to help.

Unfortunately, the only person like that he can think of is Scar.

Grian groans, flopping his face down into Mumbo’s stomach, who lets out a surprised oof. “This sucks,” he says, muffled by Mumbo’s shirt. “This sucks so much.”

“You could just ghost him,” suggests Mumbo.

“I don’t want to,” Grian whines. “I want to date him. Ugh. Forget I said that.”

“Right, but if you ghost him as Ariana, then you can seduce him as Grian! All’s well that ends well, and all that.”

“I think he’s straight, though. He’s never even looked at a guy while we’re out.”

“Has he ever looked at a girl?” Pearl says thoughtfully.

Which—he hasn’t done that, either, but that’s because he’s infatuated with Ariana. Grian doesn’t think he’d even notice another girl with her around.

“I’m actually not sure that Scar has any sort of concept of sexuality, like, in general,” Mumbo comments. “I wouldn’t even bet anything on him knowing what gay is.”

“He’s not dumb,” Grian says. “He knows, like, everything there is to know about Disney and Star Wars.”

“That doesn’t mean smart, bud.”

Grian maneuvers himself to be lying on his back on Mumbo’s lap, glaring up at him. “You just don’t know him like I do.”

Mumbo shudders. “Goodness me, I sure hope not.”

“You guys are making this worse.”

It’s a lie. Grian feels a bit better than he did earlier—at least, he no longer feels like he might burst into tears at any moment. Even now, as Pearl and Mumbo chuckle, he can’t help but smile. It’s not quite the end of the world, as long as he’s got them on his side.

“I don’t want to ghost him right before Valentine’s Day,” he says. “Maybe—maybe I can go to the dance with him, and like—like, friendzone him and set him up with me? Real me?”

“If he doesn’t even know what gay is, he might not go for it,” says Pearl. “You should try to work out his sexuality first.”

Grian looks over to her, one eyebrow raised. “How would I go about doing that?”

-

Grian shows up to the next study group meeting early, a rainbow pin affixed to his jacket and a love is love t-shirt on. The plan is simple: once Scar gets here, Mumbo will compliment Grian’s shirt. Scar, kind man that he is, will probably look over at it to comment on it as well. It’s a foolproof plan to see if he knows what it means and if he’s okay with it.

“What if I went home instead?” Grian says, glancing at the open door again. Mumbo shushes him.

“We’re being subtle, stop talking.”

Grian sticks his tongue out at him.

“Hey, Impulse!” Mumbo greets cheerily, as a heavyset man pokes his head in the room. Impulse waves.

“Hey, Mumbo! How’s it going?”

“Totally fine and normal,” Mumbo says. Grian restrains a facepalm. Why is this the plan they decided to go with? Sure, it’ll probably work, but Mumbo could blow the whole operation at any moment. He’s literally sweating right now, a conspicuous drop rolling down his temple, as his mustache quivers. Could he be any more obvious?

“That’s not a suspicious response at all,” Impulse says genially. “Is this Grian?”

“Hi,” Grian says quickly, cutting off whatever excuses Mumbo was about to make. “Yep, that’s me! Impulse, you said?”

Impulse steps into the room, leaning over to shake Grian’s hand. “Nice to meet you, dude. Mumbo and Pearl talk about you all the time.”

Grian laughs. “All good things, I hope?”

“I dunno,” Impulse chuckles. “I’ve heard a bit about your high school adventures.”

“Not from me!” Mumbo interjects. “All Pearl. I would never betray your trust like that, G.”

Grian, unfortunately, knows better than that. Mumbo has betrayed his trust plenty of times—like when he was having his Scar-related breakdown and the first thing Mumbo did was laugh until he couldn’t breathe. Like, choking and crying on the floor laughing. Like, his face actually started turning blue and Pearl threatened to call an ambulance unless he stopped.

He’s a terrible best friend like that.

Grian hasn’t actually heard a lot about Impulse, despite him being one of his sister’s closest friends. He looks like he does in the photo on Pearl’s wall—big and maybe a little imposing, his hair cut short and beard scruffy. He’s wearing cargo shorts (just like Scar was last time, curse him for reminding Grian of Scar) and a black t-shirt with an ‘i’ on it that might be a reference to the Incredibles. Grian hasn’t seen that movie in years. Seems like an odd thing to wear.

But then again, Mumbo wears a button-up almost every day, and Grian himself almost never takes off his red sweater (which he isn’t wearing today to show off his pride shirt and he feels more than a little naked without it), so he really hasn’t got any room to judge.

“I’ve got the other room set up, but only two or three people said they plan on showing, so it might be better to combine today,” Impulse says to Mumbo, eyeing the seats in the room. “What were you planning on going over?”

“Just some stats stuff. Reading tables, p values, all that.”

Impulse nods. “Yeah, we can probably combine. I’ve mostly been running homework help for trig, but if Scar doesn’t show the others would be fine with a recap.”

Grian chokes.

He tries to cover it up as a cough, ducking his face into his elbow, but he knows that his face is redder than it’s ever been. He hacks out another cough past his choking, his ears burning as he feels Impulse’s eyes on him.

“Is—is Scar not coming?” he hears Mumbo ask.

“I haven’t seen him all day, so . . . and he didn’t respond when I texted him.”

“That’s. That’s . . . odd. That’s odd, for Scar, right?”

“I dunno. I mean, sometimes he has to—Grian, do you want some water, dude?”

“I’m fine,” Grian gasps through more and more severe coughing, a tear squeezing out of his eye as he tries desperately to get air in past his twisted up throat tubes. “Just—choked on my spit—”

“Yeah, okay. I’m gonna go get some water.”

Grian hears footsteps leave the room, then Mumbo sighs. “Dude, what do we do if he isn’t here?”

Grian can’t respond, his vision getting a little bit hazy. He’s going to throw up if this gets any worse—his stomach is already cramping from how hard he’s coughing, trying to stop choking.

“Wait, are you actually—do you need—?”

“Got water!”

“Here, let me—”

Grian reels back as what feels like a whole bucket of ice water is thrown in his face, instantly soaking his shirt and hair. Unfortunately, he reels back a bit too far, and falls out of his chair, landing in a wet heap on the hard floor.

And he’s still choking.

“You’re supposed to let him drink it, not throw it at him!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—I’ve never seen someone actually choking before!”

His body wracked with coughs, his arms almost too weak to hold him up, Grian crawls over to his backpack, still sitting by his overturned chair. His water bottle—it’s in the side water bottle holding pocket, he pulls it out but he can’t get it open with how badly his fingers are spasming.

Thankfully, someone takes mercy on him and twists the lid off, holding it up to his lips. Grian drinks gratefully until he can take the bottle back into his own hands, which he holds away from himself as he coughs a few more times, ugly, hoarse sounds to clear out his throat.

“Sorry,” he rasps. He can’t stop shivering, now, goosebumps rising all over his skin from the soaking wet clothes clinging to him.

“Dude, no worries,” Impulse tells him incredulously. Grian tries to stand and ends up collapsing into a chair, his vision a bit fuzzy. “Are you okay?”

Grian waves a hand. “Eh.”

Great. Now he needs to go change, unless he wants to sit here in a freezing puddle of water for the next hour. He turns a weak glare on Mumbo, who has the decency to look a little ashamed, an empty hydroflask still in his hands.

“Sorry?” he apologizes. Grian rolls his eyes.

“I might . . . go home,” he says, pulling himself up onto trembling legs like a newborn baby giraffe. “Thanks . . . thanks, Impulse.”

“You sure? You’re not looking too hot.”

“I live just across the street, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll—I’ll catch up with you later,” Mumbo says. He twists his mouth strangely, jerking his head toward Impulse. He looks kind of like he’s tasting something sour. Maybe he ate a lemon or something. Anything could have happened while he was dying a second ago.

“See you,” Grian nods to Mumbo.

Then he slings his backpack over his shoulder and wobbles away toward the nearest vending machine to acquire some sort of elixir to restore his health.

-

Grian has class on Mondays during the study group (last week his class had been canceled, the only reason he’d been there to see Scar in the first place), but it isn’t a very important class. It’s just his civic engagement class. There are more important things than his major at stake right now.

“Looking cute,” Scott calls out from down the hall as Grian hurries toward the study room where Mumbo’s study group meets.

And Scar isn’t there.

Again.

Is he doing something wrong? Scar hasn’t been coming to the study group, Impulse and Mumbo haven’t seen him, and he hasn’t messaged a single thing since he asked Ariana to the Valentine’s Day dance—almost a week ago, now.

Grian leaves early again, though this time he doesn’t nearly choke to death. He makes up some excuse about needing to organize his sock drawer (Mumbo gives him a look of consternation, stumbling over his explanation of the standard normal distribution) and practically flees the room, hurrying back to his apartment without even thinking about his last class of the day, set to start later that afternoon.

Pearl isn’t home, thankfully. It gives Grian plenty of space to change into his parrot onesie and carry all his fish plushies to the couch, which he dumps in a heap on the sofa and collapses on top of them.

Actually, he kind of wishes Pearl was home. Then he could bother her relentlessly until she made him hot chocolate.

Scar got him hot chocolate on their most recent date.

Grian shoves his face into a cod, muffling his wail of despair. He can’t stop thinking about him, and he’s losing his mind! Is there some way to get a restraining order against your own thoughts? Because he desperately needs one.

Everything reminds him of Scar. Every stupid thing, from the Valentine’s bouquets of flowers at the grocery store to some kid playing Tetris in front of him in class to Mumbo tripping over his own feet. It’s awful and depressing and always leaves him feeling down. Not to mention, he spends way too much time imagining a life together while lying in bed, trying to sleep. Too much. Restraining order, now, please.

If he moved to Iceland, he definitely wouldn’t have to deal with this. In fact, Iceland also offers free college, so if he wanted to continue his education in a distant land with no connection to his life here, it would be a pretty good option. He’s sure he can also get a fisherman apprenticeship, though at this point, the whole ‘laying low’ thing isn’t as necessary as it was before. Given that Scar seems to be ghosting him just as much in return.

He supposes it would be kind of funny if Scar had also run away to Iceland. He can picture it—he’s been living in Iceland as a fisherman for several years now, a bushy mustache successfully hiding his identity. One day he’s out fishing in a storm, only kept safe by the guiding lighthouse as he gets dangerously close to shipwrecking on the rocks. He manages to stumble inside the lighthouse, soaked through and shivering, only to stop with awe at the beautiful murals that spiral around the inside of the building.

He stands there in the center of it, slowly spinning in place to take it all in, then hears an oddly familiar click-thump of a cane. . . .

And Scar comes striding down the spiral stairs, his own face covered with a similarly bushy mustache and a long beard.

“Well, hello there!” he says, leaning against the stair rail. “It’s quite the storm out there, isn’t it? Come on up, I’ve got hot chocolate on the stove!”

Shocked and completely disarmed, Grian follows, shucking off his heavy coat and clutching his arms around his waterlogged red sweater. Scar leads him into a cozy kitchen, a vine trailing from an overgrown flower pot set on the windowsill, a tiny table set with two chairs in the corner. He pours them both mugs of hot chocolate and sits, pushing Grian’s toward him.

Grian drinks gratefully, sitting with him, still dripping water all over. The hot chocolate warms him through, and Grian sighs in relief as his thumb brushes over a small chip in the handle of the off-white mug.

Then he looks up at Scar, and Scar is looking at him, that soft smile that he always gives Ariana gracing his face.

“You must be freezing,” he’ll say, and Grian will nod, taking another sip. “Not to worry! Plenty of blankets in this here lighthouse, and body heat is the best source of warmth, so we should probably cuddle on the couch.”

Grian nods again. “That—that sounds good,” he says, trying to cover his blush with his mug.

Soon enough, Grian will find himself in a spare pair of trousers and an oversized shirt, both of which smell so much like Scar his head is dizzy with it. He joins Scar on the couch, where the man holds him tenderly to his chest, the two of them wrapped in a blanket while the fireplace crackles cozily nearby.

Scar combs his fingers through Grian’s stringy, salty hair, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he murmurs. Grian hums contentedly, one finger idly curled around the end of Scar’s beard.

“But so have the worms,” Scar says, voice quickly turning ominous.

Grian blinks.

“What?” he says, looking up at him. Scar’s face is lined with concern, concern that only grows when he glances out the window at the thundering night.

“They’re worse during the rain,” he says. “And with this storm? I wouldn’t be surprised if they uprooted my entire home.”

Grian’s eyes follow Scar’s to the window—and, as he watches, something blocks the lower half of the glass, lightning reflecting off a slimy, segmented, fleshy tube.

It’s massive—thicker around than Grian himself is, and it slides across the window slowly, seemingly never-ending.

“I’ll protect you,” Scar breathes. “But our best bet is to stay quiet and hope they don’t sense us.”

“They can smell us, though,” Grian whispers. “We have to try to run.”

“There’s too many of them. They’re slow, but . . . so am I.”

Scar’s right. They may be slow, but with Scar’s cane, he’ll never outrun the beasts.

“Then we stay,” Grian decides, pulling the blanket closer around them. Scar shakes his head.

“No, you can go! You have to get to the combination Subway-Chili’s, it’s the only safe place close by!”

“I won’t leave you,” promises Grian.

Scar gives him a look, one overflowing with affection and grief and so much hope. “Grian.”

The window rattles under the weight of the worm’s heavy body. Grian ignores it. “Kiss me?” he asks softly, eyes flicking toward Scar’s lips.

“Grian, don’t you have a class?”

Kind of a weird thing for Scar to say right now. Grian frowns—

“Grian, mate, wake up.”

A pillow hits him in the head and Grian opens his eyes.

He pushes himself up onto his arms, knocking a salmon off the soda and onto the carpet floor. He blinks at it, then looks up, squinting at Mumbo’s mustached face.

He glances out the window, finds it cloudy, but not too dark, another apartment complex visible. No storms and giant, flesh-eating worms.

“I think I just had the weirdest dream,” he mumbles, smacking his lips. Yeah, his mouth tastes like afternoon nap. Not his favorite. “There were, like, worms.”

“Dude, isn’t your class starting soon?”

Grian fumbles around the sofa until he finds his phone on the floor, next to the salmon. One look at it tells him two things—the time, and that he hasn’t received a single message from Scar.

“It already started,” he says, flopping onto his back on the sofa.

“How many times can you miss it?”

“No attendance policy. It’s a seminar.”

Mumbo sighs. “Sure, but what about the other class that you skipped? To come to the study group?”

“Maybe he hates me.”

“Your professor?”

Grian just groans as Mumbo carefully moves his legs aside so that he can sit down too. He doesn’t even protest when Grian puts them right back, now on top of Mumbo’s lap.

“He’s basically constantly texting me,” says Grian, picking at the stitches of a cod plushie. “But he hasn’t said anything since last Monday, Mumbo, he hasn’t texted me in a week and he wasn’t at the study group twice and I don’t know what to do!”

“Oh, Scar,” Mumbo says. He’s clearly not paying a huge amount of attention, his eyes fixed on his phone. “Dude, it’s probably fine.”

“What if he hates me?” Grian bemoans, flailing his arms dramatically. “I kind of ghosted him, so what if he hates me?”

He didn’t mean to ghost him all week. Every day, he’d told himself that he would say something if Scar didn’t text first. But then he put off figuring out what to say, because he didn’t know how to respond without accepting the invite to the date, and now it’s been a week and he’s definitely made a mistake.

“Isn’t that good, though?” Mumbo says thoughtfully. “If he hates girl-you, maybe he’ll like you-you.”

Grian’s still not quite awake, so it takes him a moment to parse that sentence.

He doesn’t want Scar to hate any version of him, though. He wants Scar to love all of him, instead of just one small part.

He should really text him back.

“Would it hurt that much if I just went to the dance with him?” he reasons out loud. “Probably nothing will happen.”

“I’m pretty sure you said that there was the possibility of him asking you to be his girlfriend.”

“That probably won’t happen.”

Mumbo looks up from his phone, giving Grian a Look not dissimilar to the one he gave him at the study group today. Annoyance and exasperation and anxiety, all mixed into one facial expression. “Dude. It’ll be Valentine’s Day.”

“Yeah, so, basically fine,” Grian waves off, already opening his text thread with Scar. “And if he does ask, I can just say I’m not ready for that kind of commitment or something. I’ll be fine.”

“If Pearl were here, she’d stop you.”

“Pearl’s not here, so there.”

He honestly just really, really wants to hear from Scar again.

Besides, the dance will be fun. It’ll be really fun. He’ll have a great time.

Ariana: sry for the late response, life lol

Ariana: sure :) meet you there?

-

The next day comes and Grian still hasn’t gotten a text back.

That’s actually really scary. Really, really, scary, because Mumbo tells him that Scar didn’t come to the study group that afternoon, either, which means he’s basically a missing person.

Grian doesn’t want to talk about the steps that bring him to the door of Scar’s apartment, knocking before he can have second thoughts.

It definitely didn’t involve Mumbo, an admin computer, and an absurd heist-situation that involved lowering Mumbo in through the ceiling, hanging from some gear that he borrowed from his rock climbing class.

It also definitely didn’t involve Grian accidentally dropping Mumbo on his face.

Nor did it involve the administrator coming in halfway through and Mumbo hiding behind a lamp.

But they managed to get Scar’s address from an undisclosed location by undisclosed means, and Mumbo swore he would never get involved in Grian’s antics ever again and Grian knew that was a promise he wasn’t going to be able to keep.

But, hey—the Valentine’s Day dance is mere days away, and he needs to know if Scar’s okay before he actually collapses into a breakdown! Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that.

When the door opens, though, Grian’s surprised to see someone who definitely isn’t Scar.

The man who answers the door has glasses and black hair that sticks up wildly, an irritated expression on his face. He’s larger than Grian, large enough to block most of the doorway, so Grian can’t look past to see if Scar’s even here.

“What do you want?” the man asks, one hand still on the doorknob, as if he’s ready to close it in Grian’s face.

“Erm, hi!” Grian says, frantically searching for his pre-decided lines. “My name’s Grian, I—well, er, I’m in a study group with S—with someone named Scar, and—well, I thought he lived here—”

“He does.”

“Oh! Cool! Well, we haven’t seen him around in a while, and he wasn’t responding to any messages—” Grian panics briefly, because as far as he knows only Ariana has sent Scar anything, but he assumes that Impulse has said something so he forges on— “so we just wanted to make sure he was okay.”

The man glances over his shoulder, back into the apartment. Grian stands on his tippy-toes to try and see as well, but drops down to flat feet when the man turns back around.

“He’s good,” the man says.

Oh.

So Scar has been ghosting him.

That really, really hurts. Way more than he thought it would—his heart actually feels like it sinks in his chest, all the way down to swim around in his stomach acid.

The man must notice the way he deflates, because he sighs. “Look, he didn’t want me to tell anyone,” he says, lowering his voice. “But Scar got a bit of a nasty concussion last week. No screens for a week, is what the doctor said. He’ll be back in a day or two. What did you say your name was, again?”

Oh.

Okay, forget about his heart sinking. It rises so quickly that he can almost taste the burn of stomach acid in the back of his throat, which may just be vomit induced by such rapidly vacillating emotions.

Scar hasn’t been purposefully avoiding him, he’s just concussed! He’s still head over heels for Ariana!

“Grian,” he says, before smiling—and he can’t stop the grin from spreading so large that his cheeks hurt. “Thanks. Thanks!”

“Okay,” the man says with a frown. Grian doesn’t say anything else, though, just skips away down the stairs and out of the apartment building, absolutely giddy with the endorphins rushing through him.

He might still throw up.

But that doesn’t matter! Tonight will be an ice cream celebration, and Grian’s stomach had better just deal with it! That night, it’s right after he eats an entire bowl of caramel-drizzled ice cream, of course, that his phone buzzes. Neither Mumbo nor Pearl notice, scraping the last bits of ice cream out of their bowls, but Grian’s stomach starts doing somersaults when he sees who he received a message from.

Grian actually throws up, then, barely making it to the kitchen sink in time.

Amidst Mumbo’s panicking and Pearl’s concern, Grian looks at his phone again, wiping off his mouth with a handful of water.

Scar: Sounds goodd! I;ll meet yuo at 7?

“Well, fellas,” he says, holding up his phone. “Looks like I have a date.”

This all would have been far easier if he’d just fled to Iceland.

[powpowd]

Can I request an sbg x fem reader one-shot who has the powers of winter from aespa's new Supernova mv in the phantom world, but the drawback is that she gets sick and vomits blood + she has lucky girl syndrome (which means she's lucky asf)

Or

A sbg x gn reader who is like emu otori from wonderlandxshowtime and she is the captain of the dance team + and has the fighting technique of mizuki just search up "mizuki wrestler" on tiktok.

I’m doing the second one because I’m inlove with the cute theme soo.. hope you like it ^_^

— I also added the lucky girl syndrome for this cause it fits a little, I would take your first request but it takes SO MUCH more research, I’ll find a time to do it though. ❤️

How could they truly react to you? When they had first met you their first impressions went well to say the least. You were bubbly and expressive and now or less extroverted. You were giggly aswell and it was hard to deny how you were a little ditzy sometimes.

Everyday at school you were always in a good mood, they never caught you in a bad one. At first when the phantom realm thing started they thought that it didn’t happen to you. They didn’t see you for the first or second time they went, it confused them, it truly did. You went to the sorrel weed house to? So how come it didn’t affect you.

They soon came to realize that was not the case. They saw you one day, running towards them and waving. Ashlyn was the first to react, it was only a couple minutes into the second day and you were just so happy to be here? Taylor ran towards you and you both hugged, even though you all aren’t close. Tyler and Ben were more or less standing awkwardly but Tyler looked a little upset. Aiden was just being.. Aiden? He was asking you some dumb questions and poking you. Logan looked concerned but everyone was overall okay.

You were really tired, you rubbed your eyes as they asked and harassed you with their concerned. You gave them a odd face and just shrugged.

“I don’t know! Lol?” You said with a little smile, they all suddenly had straight faces and Taylor giggled at how lost you sounded. “Those blob things were scary though!” You sounded so shocked, but not scared… at all.

You guys had been going to the realm for a couple days after this silly incident and they hadn’t really seen you fight, they all figured you couldn’t, Ashlyn decided that you guys might aswell see her parents to train. It could benefit all of you.

They were shocked, very shocked. ON HOW YOU REFUSED. Why didn’t you want to do it? It would literally benefit all of them. Tyler had the most negative reaction.

“Come on, this would help all of us! You’ll just drag us down if you can’t defend yourself!” He said something like that, practically saying you were dead weight if you couldn’t be of use. It didn’t hurt you to much, you knew what he meant to say and yet it didn’t affect you.

You decided to tell them you would accompany them, and accompany you did. When they asked one more time if you wanted to take your turn at getting your ass beat you said.

“No thank you!” And smiled sheepishly, “I already have sports I do like wrestling, I don’t need to learn anymore stuff!” The whole group went silent.

“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” Tyler asked. You didn’t hear him very well, it sounded like mumbling.

“Huh? What was-“ “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL US THAT BEFORE?” His reaction was sort of funny, but you just kind of stood there all silly and blinked sheepishly.

You and Aiden get along pretty well, but you’ve had your creative differences.

“I think it’ll look better like this!” You said, showing him the show outfit idea for your next match.

“I think you should add a bow on the chest part, like a glitter force character!” He said nonchalantly as you groaned..

“Okay, should I add glitter?” You asked, your eyes lighting up, he quickly agreed. You got for work on it immediately.

They’ve come to a couple of your wrestling matches, you joined the school club. The club wasn’t separated by genders so imagine their suprise when you took down some guy who was much taller than you with little to no effort. After the match when you met up with them the first thing you said was;

“This uniform they make us wear is so not cute! Or comfy for that matter, they only let me put some sweatpants over the bottoms. And the bottoms are so tight!” You just raged about the uniform, you looked like a sad puppy, but they you brightened up again, “were you all impressed?”

“Why don’t you do this stuff in the phantom realm?” Taylor asked with a dumbstruck face as you mimicked her and everyone went silent. Ashlyn stared at you before sighing and dismissing Taylor’s question after looking at your face.

You and Ashlyn are close aswell. The grumpy, quiet and observant with the cute, playful, ditzy one was your guys favorite stereotype. Or at least yours..?

You two are complete opposites but go so well together, the only thing she has to complain about is how you can be so, so clueless.

“What do you think, (name)?” You blinked at Ashlyn’s question and made a weird face.

“About what?” You asked scratching your neck. She stared at you for a minute befor asking;

“Are you serious?” They had just been talking about the plan and you had missed so much of it. Besides that encounter you guys get along swell.

Taylor? Taylor is your girl. Your go to bestie, your number one. She gets you, she really gets you.

“Do you like my outfit? It’s for wrestling! I have a match tonight!” She marveled at your presented outfit, you had all been hanging out at your house and you wanted to personally show Taylor your outfit, in your room while the others hangout downstairs.

“It’s so cute? How is that for wrestling?” She says, messing with the bow that Aiden insisted you add. “The bow is cute.” You deadpan.

“Yeah it’s cute I guess.” You say blushing cockily, you flip your hair dramatically as you both burst out into giggles.

Now, Logan? Logan, Logan, Logan.. how did you approach this one? Well he was a little intimidated by you, you were so bubbly, loud and creative that he just couldn’t get over how overwhelming you are.

“Logan!” You said, hugging him it was early morning and you had gotten to school early, you didn’t take the bus. You saw Logan just standing off to the side awkwardly. At first he was always put off by your affectionate nature, also how nice you were.

“(Name)?” He said, slightly hugging you back. He had seemed to have gotten used to it. It were times like now that he appreciated your personality. Ben came up beside you two and waved, you and Logan had already stopped hugging as you waved at Ben.

Ben was sweet, really sweet. When you had met Ben you were a little put off. He was kind of awkward around you, but he was also really nice to you. He never spoke, unlike you, but you seemed to get used to it just like Logan got used to you. One day you both were in the realm and you had beaten the shit out of some globs, as you like to call them. You had scrapped your ankle when you all had booked it t safety.

“Thanks Ben.” You whispered to him, while everyone conversed. He had wrapped your ankle neatly for you, you couldn’t help but smile at his generosity. He looked at you before nodding and turning his attention back to the group. He was really just shy, or was he?

Tyler was a special case. I don’t think he’d ever get used to how peppy you are. Your kind of like Aiden, it annoys him to think that.

“Tylerrrr!” You said, trying to get his attention by poking him. You guys were at lunch, you were sitting at the table together and today you had sat next to him. He had to breath in before giving you a look.

“What?” He said before looking back at his plate.

“Are you gonna eat that?“ you said, looking at his extra soda he got from the vending machine. He looked at it, he was gonna save it for his next couple classes but.. he handed it to you, without even thinking. Why didn’t he think? He just gave it to you? You took it great fully, that’s where your guys mural friendship started.

You still scare them sometimes, everyone gets scared by how reckless you are, going into battle without a second thought is dangerous. You somehow NEVER get hurt other then the ankle thing. It literally shocks them.

One time you fell out of a tree you and Aiden were messing around in and you landed on Ashlyn perfectly. You could’ve gotten hurt but you somehow landed on her in the perfect position.. how the freaky deeky?

Another extremely lucky moment was when you guys were on top of a large building and you fell off only to land on one of the window sills, somehow? Taylor had to find that window and pull you through it.

Another time you were fighting a phantom and you jumped off of a fucking refrigerator and landed your feet hit directly on top of its head as it was WALKING PAST so it was still moving!

They have never seen someone so damn lucky.

“Do you have something that makes you so lucky?” Taylor asks and suddenly everyone else started asking too.

“Yeah, even Aiden isn’t that lucky.” Ashlyn barged into the conversation.

“She’s just stupid.” Tyler says and Logan silently laughs. Ben. Sighs at the insult before you pipe up.

“I guess you could call me lucky man!” You’d say, like you’ve discovered a new species.

“Your a female.” Aiden correct.

—

That’s all I have, sorry I’m lazy and tired tday lol

[sociopathicartist]

heyy!! I was wondering if you could do a fluff (romantic) oneshot in which Sans (UT) has a gothic gf who is actually really sweet, kind and caring towards others despite the way she expresses herself. I'm just really curious as to how that dynamic will play out in their dating life ^_^

LUV LUV LUV UR WRITING BTW

hey! thank you for requesting, i’m gothic in style so i loved getting requested this! i scrambled through a lot of ideas, but thought doing this in a letter format would be the best for showing the full dynamic that sans loves instead of cramming tons of info into a single scenario one shot. hope you enjoy it!

baby,

i’m not too sure why i’m writing to you this time. i guess all the smiles and loving comments you give me whenever i write to you have finally got ‘under my skin’, and i’m writing you another letter right now, probably to be slipped into one of your bags or under your pillow for you to find.

i know a lot of people give you weird looks for the way you dress. i know the barrage of compliments you get when we go anywhere out in public annoys you, but i also know that you accept every compliment anyway despite wanting to be left alone because you don’t want to be mean, and you don’t want to fall under the stereotype that people place on you by just giving a small smile instead of a loud, outgoing thank you.

you’ve never said that to me directly, but i’ve been with you long enough to know how you feel.

i never really understood why people thought you were scary or mean for the way you look, figures they’d think the walking skeleton was scarier, or the seven-foot robot they watch on tv who has a chainsaw that can come out of him at will.

i never thought you looked scary, and i never had the fear that you were going to insult me whenever i asked you for directions down the street where we first met. why would i look at you differently for the way you look whenever everyone looks so different all the time? isn’t it a normal thing to be different?

even though you’re the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen (even if you turned into a worm, which yes, i’d still love you), it wouldn’t matter to me if you woke up tomorrow and decided to change your entire look. your looks aren’t what matters to me, even though i do like the cool eyeliner you wear or the t-shirts you have with bones on them.

i’ve never been loved by someone like the way i am by you.

i can’t get your alluring voice out of my head, and every time i roll over in bed to see the silly letters and doodles you’ve given me that i have pinned to my wall, i can’t help but be reminded of how much i love you. (even though i never forget, baby.)

it makes me so happy to see how much you hang out with papyrus, and how genuinely you treat him. i love seeing you chill out with our friends, and how happy and relaxed you look. i love how you’ve never made me feel dumb for not knowing certain human traditions or cultures, and how you just explain them to me and give me easy reminders when i forget something important.

even when your black lipstick leaves kiss stains on my skull that are hard to rub out, and when you steal my jacket to wear whenever you’re upset or missing me, i’ll never take away from how amazing you are.

maybe i’m gushing a bit too much. it’s a lot easier to write this all out rather than say it directly to your pretty face.

i just want you to know that i’ll never look at you differently for how you dress and that i’ll never be embarrassed and ask you to tone down your makeup or outfit for when we go out. i can’t wait to hang out tomorrow and wrap you in a tight hug, listening to your pretty voice as you tell me about how your day was.

i think i’m going to save the other mushy stuff for a later time. i just wanted you to be able to read this when someone gives you a weird comment or makes a snarky joke. maybe it’ll help you remember that some short skeleton out there thinks you’re the coolest (and hottest) creature to walk on this earth.

i love you, and i’ll be thinking of you always.

- sans.

[artemx746]

In light of Matpat’s ‘retirement’ is wanna say a couple things,

firstly, there is better things that you could be doing with your time than scrounging around looking for something that you can use to criticise someone for some perceived bigotry. I’ve seen some examples of him ‘being transphobic’ and since I’m trans I think I can speak a bit better about that. The most used evidence I’ve seen is one video theorising about pyro’s gender which is from TEN YEARS AGO. Using something from a decade ago as damning evidence of a persons current beliefs is not only silly but also it denies them as a person of their humanity and their ability to grow

As a trans person myself I think it’s antithetical to our own identity because to be trans is to change and grow, whether that he in your appearance or in your own mindset. And to be human and to simply be alive as a creature on this earth is to change and evolve because that kinda what we do. I know on the internet it can be hard to realise that people have probably changed in the time since they posted anything but that leaves no excuse to attack people over stuff they said a decade ago because I think you’re more mature than that.

I wanna leave this post on a positive note so if there’s anything to learn from Matpat it’s that you don’t have to change the world to have made an impact

Simply the act of making someone smile means that you have made an impact. So keep making people happy whether it be by telling dumb jokes to your friends or by making a dumb tumblr post because that can really make somebody’s day better and you never know when someone’s day being a bit better will lead them

additionally do stuff that makes you happy, tell a dumb joke to your friends because it’ll make you happy, make a dumb tumblr post about something you LIKE (for the love of god hate blogs cannot be healthy for you) because you never know when you’re simply where that might lead you

As always I’m simply a person on tumblr not a professional in anything I have no authority on this but I do just like to see people happy. To summarise; that’s just a theory. Thanks for reading. 🩷

[lightlycareless]

sneak peak of one of the requests I've been working on :> also an idea I wanted to explore with Naoya hahahah he's a jerk btw.

complete version here.

When the idea of an open relationship is suggested… the first, of many fractures, unwittingly struck onto your relationship.

First by shattering the image you had of him.

Sure, your feelings for him remained, which is what made this ordeal far more painful…

But that didn’t mean you couldn’t harbor other feelings, such as anger.

“—just before we finally settle.” Is the lousy excuse he gives you when confronted, another stab to your heart. “Get it out of the system, you know?”

No. You don’t know, because for the past few years, Naoya is the only man you’ve had eyes for, imagining a future with him—and solely him.

It hurts to even consider he hasn’t been doing the same, probably already interested in some other woman, the reason behind his suggestion in the first place.

“I don’t want to…” you murmur, doing your best to not leave the table, or at least not shed a tear.

“It’ll only be a short time.” Naoya insists. “This way, we can know if we’re truly meant for each other. See if we don’t feel the same with others, hm?”

It’s stupid.

It really is—

Naoya’s suggestion… and your devotion to make him happy.

Because even after all the dumb things he said to justify the unjustifiable, you still wanted to please him.

“I guess we could go through restrictions or something, not that I have an—”

“No sex.” The rapid way in which you reply is something Naoya can’t help but find adorable, interpreting your eagerness as jealousy, overprotectiveness… before brushing it off as silly.

“Y/N—my love, you’re not seriously thinking we can reach a conclusion without that now, can we?”

Truth to be told, you didn’t want to find out. Not by this way at least, by laying in the arms of another…

Could he really blame you for trying to fight it?

“Besides, don’t you want to try it out too?” Naoya smirks. “I’m fine with it, really. It’s a two-way road, after all. What’s good in me having all the fun?”

What hurts more?

That fact that Naoya wanted to pursue other women with your permission?

Or that he was pushing you onto other men, appearing careless to whatever you did or didn’t do with them?

It’s not that Naoya doesn’t care—far from that, really. He doesn’t like when men do as little as glance in your direction.

But he doesn’t worry, because he knows there’s nothing to worry about.

Trusting that his hopelessly-in-love girlfriend would never betray him like that. Aware that your attention and devotion has been on him the moment you took him into your heart—and that no matter what, you’ll always come back to him.

It’s why he suggested the idea in the first place, because he’s long acknowledged that even past your limits, you still tolerate him.

Thus, unsurprised that you agreed to this change—Naoya leaving the apartment soon after that.

Looks like you were right in assuming he already had someone in mind to debut this new arrangement; willing to bet anything to prove he’s already on way to her.

…Well, you hope that Naoya at least respects the only condition both agreed on: not bring any partners to the apartment.

Not that you’d be there to see much of it anyways, opting to stay in your friend’s—Shoko— apartment for the time being.

“Can’t say I didn’t imagine him capable of something like that—but I guess I never thought he’d actually do it, not after dating you as long as he did.” She’d say, before taking a deep huff of her cigarette and exhaling.

You always found it endearing how she’d release the smoke to the side, as if it didn’t permeate the air around you… but at least Shoko cares enough to try.

“So much for having faith on him…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you say, offended yet intrigued by her implications.

“I mean, you knew of the rumors before dating him, Y/N.” Shoko adds, you sigh. That, you did. “I don’t want to say I told you so, but…”

“I guess I was hoping they weren’t real.” You slowly admit. “…What am I going to do, Shoko?”

A breakup isn’t exactly what you had in mind, certainly not what you wanted to do….

But why do that now when you could take advantage of this exploitable opportunity? An opening all too obvious to Shoko, which she doesn’t hesitate to let you know.

“Give him a taste of his own medicine.” She suddenly suggests. “He told you, didn’t he? That you were good to be with other men.”

“But I don’t want to.” You shake your head. “I don’t—I don’t think I can.”

“It’s exactly the same, just another face if that’s what you’re wondering.” Shoko explains, but to you, it was much deeper than that, always has been, certainly for an emotional personal like you.

It’s why she was so angry that your beloved boyfriend was quick to disregard your feelings.

“Ok, sure, let’s say I agree.” You play along. “How do I even start? It’s been a while since I’ve been in the dating scene—I don’t even know if I’m still… desirable.”

Oh, if you only knew.

.I. naoya

[v4ngelix]

I’ve been thinking about my season 4 rewrite ideas and I’ve decided that the more angsty stuff doesn’t fit with the overall tone of season 4. It doesn’t gave the same edge as the first 3 season. When I watched it I personally (again PERSONALLY for the people in the back) found it more stupid and I mean that in the nicest way because honestly I like stupid stuff and this season stuck out to me so much.

Season 4 is MEANT to be more lighthearted, it shows in the way they treat the wizards like Saturday cartoon villains rather than huge threats like Valtor or the Trix, and honestly when I worked on the rewrite a year ago I kinda missed the point of it. After watching the series back the moments which stuck out to me were the silly ones, but I wish they didn’t treat the wizards finding Roxy as a non-threat during the first 5 episodes (3 and 5 were pure filler imo). The Winx bring magic back via cute little fairy pets, it’s stupid but I like it, and they have some dumb cheesy love drama which honestly blots the plot, but at least we got Andy who has a cute friendship with Musa with how they perform together. And like who’s taking this seriously other than the Roxy and Earth Fairy stuff which in my opinion is more of a reminder the series is still Winx. And besides, they go for a “violence isn’t always the answer” message.

Anyway I’m rambling, what I mean is in my rewrite it’ll be much more light-hearted BUT I’ll still fix a lot of issues I have such as Episode 1-3, Episode 11, fucking Episode 16, the wizards being bland, Bloom not being a princess or that getting ignored. Basically season 2’s approach but the villains get depth instead of getting ghosted. (Rest in piece Lord Darker, his voice changes every second)

[thestrangerblog]

Hair care

Author's note: Here comes my first Percabeth fanfic, a fluffy little showverse story, because I haven't read the books yet. I think Annabeth needs a little pampering and Percy is there to do it.

I'm white, so forgive me if I got the hair care for black girls wrong, all I know about that is from Youtube Videos.

Hair Care

Percy had just taken a much needed shower after returning to camp from his quest to find the lightning bolt. He was on his way back to the Poseidon cabin when he ran into Annabeth who was on her way to the camp showers. Percy stopped in his tracks and couldn’t help but stare.

Annabeth had unbraided her hair which totally changed her appearance. Her hair was all over her head in a wild mess. To him it looked like a halo or a gigantic crown.

“Shut your mouth, seaweed-brain or you’ll start drooling when you’re awake, too.”

Only now did Percy realize that he had been staring open-mouthed at Annabeth. He took her advice and quickly shut his mouth, only to open it again a moment later to say something.

“You look... different.”

“I unbraided my hair so I can wash it,” Annabeth said with an eye-roll.

“I didn’t realize your hair looks like this naturally.”

Percy felt really dumb, but that wasn’t unusual in Annabeth’ company.

“What, messy and filthy?” she asked aggressively.

“No! No, that’s not... I swear I didn’t mean that!” Percy stuttered, slightly panicked. “There’s just... so much of it. It looks fluffy.”

“Fluffy?” Annabeth asked, raising an eyebrow. “What am I, a rabbit?”

But she sounded amused, not angry, so Percy assumed he hadn’t offended her.

Percy laughed. “No, you don’t give rabbit vibes. I think you’d be something more impressive. And smarter of course. An owl maybe, with being Athena’s daughter and all.”

“And you’d be a monkey. One of those tiny ones, maybe a lemur. Loud, annoying, silly, but somehow you not only get away with it, but people even bring you treats,” Annabeth said.

“I don’t know if this was an insult or a compliment.”

“A bit of both, I guess.”

Percy didn’t know what else to say, but also didn’t want to just go away. During the last week he and Annabeth had nearly always been together and he had a feeling that he would feel lonely without her in the big, empty Poseidon cabin.

“Speaking of treats. I still have some of the candies my mother gave me before I left for camp. She works at a candy shop and gets to take home free samples sometimes. Want to come over and share them with me after your shower? Maybe we could borrow a laptop from someone and watch a movie.”

Percy saw Annabeth visibly hesitating.

“I’d really like that, but it’ll take a while for me to be done in the showers and I’m pretty tired. I guess I would just fall asleep 5 minutes into the movie.”

Percy was surprised at that. He had only taken 10 minutes in the shower even though he needed to wash off a week’s dirt. He hadn’t thought Annabeth was the high maintenance type of girl who took forever in the bathroom. Considering that Percy had had enough near death experiences over the past week he decided not to voice his thoughts. But apparently that wasn’t necessary. Either his facial expression had given him away or Annabeth could read his mind.

The girl rolled her eyes. “My hair needs a lot more work to not look like a mess then yours, seaweed-brain. Getting the tangles out takes forever and needs more than just shampoo.”

“Oh.”

Should he have known that? Was it dumb or insensitive of him not to know that?

“I could help,” he offered spontaneously. “With the hair, not with the shower!” he quickly clarified, blushing.

After everything Annabeth had done for him he really wanted to give something back. And he was somehow fascinated with the way her hair looked unbraided and really wanted to know how it felt to touch it.

“You want to come with me into the girls restrooms?” she asked.

“No, you could just come to my cabin after your shower.”

“Do you have a sink in your cabin?” Annabeth asked.

Now it was Percy’s turn to give Annabeth an eye-roll, a deeply satisfying experience.

“I’m the son of Poseidon, wise-girl. I don’t need a sink, I can just get a bucket of water and make the water move like with a shower-head.”

“Really?” Annabeth asked, sounding impressed. She was impressed by him!

Percy shrugged. “I practiced a little when I was alone in the cabin and couldn’t sleep.”

“Okay, I’ll humor you and let you give me a demonstration. But no sea water. That will only make it worse.”

Percy got the bucket he had for his water experiments from his cabin and filled it with warm water in the boys shower. Annabeth arrived at his cabin only a few minutes later. She had changed her clothes, but her hair was dry, meaning she apparently hadn’t started with whatever washing routine she had.

“Okay, I have the water and I know how to use shampoo, but apart from that I’m pretty lost, so I’ll need a bit of help,” Percy admitted.

Annabeth nodded. She had lived in a cabin with siblings of both sexes and from different ethnicities for five years now (apparently her mother didn’t have a type), so she knew that hair care was much easier for white kids, especially for boys.

“Okay, so, my hair needs a lot of moisture. I actually start with a conditioner and a lot of water and then slowly detangle my hair, first with my fingers, then with a tangle teaser brush. Then I use shampoo, then conditioner again and in the end I put oil in my hair and leave it in.”

Percy nodded. “Doesn’t sound too difficult.

Annabeth laughed. “You won’t repeat that after you have started getting the tangles out.”

“Okay, I thought you could just sit in a chair, I stand behind you and put the water bucket next to us.”

“Sounds good to me,” Annabeth said.

Annabeth sat down and Percy stood behind the chair and let the water come out of the basket in a little fountain that went to Annabeth head and then back into the basket and up again in a circuit.

Annabeth looked impressed. “You really have practiced a lot.”

Percy shrugged. “Not really. It didn’t take long for me to get it right. Anything with water comes naturally to me. Would you like a blanket or something for your neck to be more comfortable?”

Annabeth looked surprised to be asked that, but nodded. “That would be nice, thank you.”

Percy rolled the blanket from his bed and put it at the back of the chair so Annabeth could lean back comfortably. He gently put his hands on her hair and guided it to get it soaked with water. It really was fluffy. When Annabeth’ hair was thoroughly wet which took surprisingly long Percy took the conditioner Annabeth had brought with her and gently started untangling Annabeth hair. She had been right, it really wasn’t that easy to detangle the thick strands, but Percy didn’t mind. He started at the neck and gently untangled Annabeth’ hair strand for strand. Then he carefully brushed her hair out. Then he put shampoo in his hands and gently lathered Annabeth’ hair with it. Now he could easily get through her locks with his fingers. He made sure that the shampoo got everywhere, gently massaging Annabeth scalp while foaming the shampoo. Annabeth had closed her eyes during the detangling and was now leaning back in the chair to give Percy better access. Her face didn’t have her usual cool and aloof expression, she looked emotional and to Percy’s surprise a tear escaped her. Annabeth had apparently noticed that, too and tensed. Percy, who had gotten good at fast reactions, let a bit of water run down Annabeth’ cheeks.

“Sorry,” Percy mumbled, making it look like an accident.

“It’s okay,” Annabeth said and relaxed again, now that she didn’t have to worry about controlling her reactions to the tender care anymore.

Now it was Percy who had to control himself when he realized how foreign tenderness must be to Annabeth. He took a deep breath to control his sudden anger at Annabeth’ family and concentrated on the task at hand. In this moment he swore to himself to give Annabeth as much affection as possible whenever he got a chance.

Percy washed away the shampoo with water before stopping his make-shift fountain and then put conditioner in Annabeth hair again, spreading it thoroughly. Then he applied the oil and rubbed Annabeth’ hair with the towel until it wasn’t dripping anymore.

Annabeth stood up and faced Percy, looking insecure and almost shy, what was so strange for her.

“Thank you, Percy.”

Percy smiled. “You’re welcome. If you want to, I can always do your hair when we are at camp. You can teach me how to braid, if you want.”

“You’d do that?” Annabeth asked, surprised,

Percy nodded and hoped that it didn’t look too eager. He really loved going through Annabeth hair with his fingers and he enjoyed being able to spend time alone with her.

“Yes, I’d like that.”